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COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



SPRIGS O' MINT 



1 

Sprigs o' Mint 



BY 

JAMES TANDY ELLIS 



NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

J906 



UBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

MAY 2 1906 




T63^e1 



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COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Oh, Sing Me a Song ! 9 

The Meanest of the Mean 11 

The Return of Joe 13 

Hal 15 

The New Piano 21 

"Here ! Little Ponto, Here !" 22 

When Oscar Smokes His Cigarette 24 

The Trials of Overman 26 

Ole Man Harper 31 

Trumbo Cheatum, Jock 33 

The Old Ghent Band 37 

When Mcjllie Came Home 40 

Nigger Jess 43 

The Night It Blowed in Ghent 46 

Black Sammy 48 

When Blood Wasn't Shed 49 

Gone to Texas 54 

Martin Bolan 57 

A Song of Carroll 63 

Song of Whippoorwill 65 

A Kentucky "Last Leaf" 67 

The Ups and Downs of G. Washington Brown 69 

Ole Bull-Frorg 74 

A Touch of High Life 76 

Fiddlin' Farley 82 

Bill Boles, of the Steamboat Band 86 

The Drouth and the Rain 90 « 

Pant Powden of Powder Creek 93 

De Little Niggerette 99 

The Mistakes of a Country Candidate loi 

I'm Yearnin' fer the River no 

The Man Who Marked the Logs 112 

When the Katydid Sings 121 

Pelican Smith 122 

Slibbers on Spiritualism 128 

The Disorganization of Rad's Run Church. . .139 

The Tale of Falling River 143 

"An Eye for an Eye," Etc 150 

Ole Uncle Abe 153 

The Downfall of Rev. Duckey 155 

Some Superstitions 159 

"Ned" 161 



SPRIGS O^ MINT 



OH, SING ME A SONG! 

Oh, sing me a song of the orchard old, 

With its bloom of the spring-tide day, 
When skies were of silver, the sun was of gold. 

When the joys of the heavens play; 
When each memory dear of the bygone year 

Comes swift on the sun-kissed breeze, 
Where the nesting bird eases her weary wings 

In the cool of the blossoming trees. 

Then sing me a song of the meadow so green 

And the gold of the waving wheat, 
When the sunbeams have kissed on the river's 
sheen — 

'Tis a song that is soft and sweet ; 
And tell me of lambs on the old hillside 

That blend with the sinking sun. 
As the clear evening bells on the outgoing tide 

Which tell of the day that is done. 

Oh, sing me a song of the autumn sear. 
With her leaves of the burnished gold. 

When memory seeks for each picture dear 
And frames them with sighs of old ; 



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When the harvest is gathering in heart and field, 
And gray hairs are cltist'ring amid the 
yield — 
Oh, sing me a song of the autumn sear, 

The sad twilight time of the heart and the 
year. 

Then sing me a song of the drear, wintry hours. 

When the skies roll in deep, cold and gray, 
When we long for the sweet of the heart-bloom- 
ing flowers 
And the joys of the dream-olden day — 
Each snow-drop that lingers in sleepy-eyed 
skies, 
It seems wafts a message from blest paradise. 
From loved ones who tread o'er the heav'nly 
pathway. 

But I thirst for the theme of the spring-time 
dream 
And the angelic breath of the spring-tide 
flowers. 
And the orchard so old with its deep sun of 
gold 
And the sweet of the childhood's hours ; 
And I long for the day of the far away. 

With its joys of the heaven and sun-kissed 
breeze. 
When the nesting bird rested her weary wings 
In the cool of the blossoming trees. 

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THE MEANEST OF THE MEAN. 

I sat in the parlor of the little country hotel ; 
the Sabbath morn had kissed the hills with sun- 
shine and through the valley there was the lull 
of contentment and peace. The proprietor of 
the hotel had a sort of monopoly on the business 
of the town, owning the principal store, the liv- 
ery stable and the undertaking establishment, 
and through the half-closed shutters I could 
hear him and a farmer "striking a trade" for a 
coffin. The farmer had about a yard of crepe 
on his hat to let people know that he was 
mourning, but he seemed to be mourning more 
over the funeral expenses than anything else. 

"Ras," said he, "when you buried my fust 
wife I was in better shape then I am now. I 
got a little prop'ty from my fust wife, but my 
last wife has been a clear loss to me, fer she wuz 
the workin'ist woman that I ever see, an' she 
wuz so keerful about my intrusts that she went 
almos' necked to save bills. The pore soul used 
to look up at me with pride in her heart when 
we wuz out takin' dinner with some of the 
nabers, an' say, 'Nobody kin ever say that I 
have ever been foolish er extravigent in dress ;' 
an' the naber folks vv^ould look up as much as to 

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say, *You don't have to tell nobody that/. That 
woman had more economy to the square inch 
than any woman I ever see — everythin' that 
wuz wuth sellin' went off the farm, an' I got so 
use to eatin' rancid butter that I didn't like it no 
other way. Yes, Ras, she wuz economy, an' I 
know hit would grieve her to cut any extra 
didoes in the way of funeral expenses." 

"Well," said Ras, as he took out a short pen- 
cil and began to make figures on the side of the 
house, "I kin furnish you a plain varnished, 
pine, light trimmin' of caliker an' stufidn' of ex- 
celser, an' give you a ram-up show with the two 
sorrel bosses fer thirty-two-sixty." 

"Ras, there hain't no use in talkin' them fig- 
gers. I can't cut her, as hard run as I am." 

"Well," said Ras, "if you'll give me twenty- 
two dollars an' that Jersey sow an' three pigs 
we'll trade." 

"Make it the sow and one pig, Ras." 

"I'll do it if you'll bring them over before the 
funeral." 

"It's a trade." 

"How about a shroud — want a shroud ?" 

"No, indeed, Ras; no, indeed! Jinnie would 
feel a dam sight more comfortable if she 
knowed that she wuz to be laid away in that ol' 
gingham dress that she wore so long." 



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THE RETURN OF JOE. 

Joe's come back — did ye ever hear 
How he vamoosed off last year ? 
Said he was tired of the grubbin' hoe 
An' farmin' Hfe, an' had to go 
An' git a taste of city Hfe — 
Took his things, his kids an' wife, 
Left his hounds in keer of Sis, 
An' pulled fer Indianapolis. 

Joe got a job in a lumber yard, 
The wages small, the work wuz hard. 
But Joe wuz tastin' city life — 
The rush, the turmoil and the strife. 
But as he watched the swirl and swim 
The golden glamor paled to him. 
The nabers didn't seem to find 
Whar he was at, or seem inclined 
To pass the hours in happy chat ; 
An' nary dog or nary cat 
Come brushin' by the kitchen door. 
An' Joe wuz gittin' sick an' sore, 
Fer meat wuz high, an' garden truck 
Warn't free like down in old Kentuck, 
An' often down the southern sky. 
He turned a weary, yearnin' eye. 

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How Joe got back, the good Lord knows. 
He fetched a few old ragged clothes. 
His wife an' children — my, how glad 
To find the same old house they had 
Before they left — the same old grounds. 
Joe made a bee-line fer his hounds — 
He humped it up the highest hill 
An' felt his heart with, rapture thrill — 
The same old ridge, the radiant moon, 
The fox-hound's voice a mellow tune 
An' time o' day, to hear him yell, 
'Twuz like a deep-sea soundin' bell. 
The river's bosom and the glow 
Beneath the moon — he loved it so, 
For old-time mem'ries which it held, 
His bosom heaved, his bosom swell'd — 
It was his own, his native stream. 
The long-lost vision of his dream. 
An' as he gazed in gladness there 
His heart had banished ev'ry care. 
An' he could face the f armin' toil, 
Fer he wuz on his native soil. 
An' standin' thar he hollered this — 
"To h — 1 with Indianapolis !" 



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HAL. 

THE STORY OF A HOME-SICK HOUND. 

He was just an ordinary fox-hound, but he 
came from the famous kennels of Judge Not- 
tingham, and while a great deal had been 
expected from him, yet he seemed lacking in 
every point of his famed ancestors. The chase 
had but little attraction for him, and when the 
other members of the pack were making music 
on the hills, his voice could be heard in a 
mournful echo bringing up the dismal rear. He 
loved to bask in the warm sunshine by the serv- 
ants' quarters, but was always on the alert at 
feeding time. The winding blast of the hunt- 
er's horn bore no such sweet music to his ear as 
the peal of the old farm bell. 

Old Major Pence stood on his front porch 
one morning gazing upon the river as it rolled 
between the hills. "Josh," he called to his old 
servant, "Josh, that dog don't seem to be any 
account for anything, so far as I can see." 

"No, sah. Mars Pence, het doan' seem dat he 
got no ambishun foh nuthin', 'cept' ter lay 
aroun' in de sun. I'se knowed lots uv niggahs a 

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good deal lack Hal, sah — dey doan' teck no 
intrus' in any spo't whut hain't got no eatin' in 
it." 

"Well, Josh," said the Major, "Joe Jump is 
coming by here this morning with his family in 
a covered wagon, on his way to Missouri. He 
wants me to give him a dog, so give him Hal." 

Poor Hal, with a dog-chain hooked to his 
collar and tied to the axle of the wagon, began 
the long journey. As they went down the wide 
sandy road which led to the river, Hal turned 
and cast one long farewell gaze at the old home, 
— the cool shade of the trees, the old colonial 
house in all of its old-fashioned majesty and 
the great towering hills in the back-ground, — 
and as the ferry-boat came to the shore on the 
Indiana side, the little ripples gathering on the 
pebbles seemed to murmur, "Poor Hal, poor 
Hal !" 

Then long days through strange scenes and 
changing country. The family showed him 
every kindness, and fed him well, but in his 
eyes there was the depth of sadness. He heard 
no more the merry songs of the darkies ringing 
out upon the summer air. He longed for the 
sound of the big steamers as they rounded the 
bend and nosed their way into the sombre silence 
of the sleepy hills, he longed to hear the whip- 



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poor will's serenade again on the banks of the be- 
loved old stream, and through the long nights 
when the prairie was softened under the stars 
his heart was back in the valley and the moon- 
kissed hills. 

The covered wagon with its occupants finally 
arrived at its destination, and for the first time 
Hal was unchained. The little family was mak- 
ing preparations to build a home, and Hal stood 
around and listened to the sound of the saw and 
hammer and the merry shouts of the children as 
they ran to and fro through the long wild grass. 
When the night came and the sweetness of 
slumber was over the little camp, Hal stood out 
near the wagon, his eyes searching the eastern 
sky. The thin white crescent of the moon shot 
the eastern horizon, — the night wind rustled 
softly and seemed to breathe the one word — 
"home." 

He did not even turn to leave a lingering look 
of farewell, but with a steady gaze, as if search- 
ing for some guiding star, he silently passed 
into the night. On and on he swung, the crisp 
air lending a bracing stimulant to his blood. A 
screech-owl snapped and cried from a bush as 
he passed and he heard a dog howl from some 
distant cabin. On through the deep night — the 
stars were getting dim and the moon was gone. 



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By the banks of a little pool he stopped and lay 
down to rest his weary limbs, and there he lay 
all day until the sun was sinking in golden 
splendor in the west, and then the journey 
began again, and through the long night he 
bent his course to the east. At the break of day 
a timid rabbit crossed his path and Hal had a 
breakfast. He pressed forward to a spring, 
which he remembered on the outward journey, 
and there he slaked his thirst and stretched at 
full length on the soft earth. 

His eyes were just closing when he heard 
some one approaching and heard the sound of 
voices. Was he being pursued ? He leaped to 
his feet, his ears standing alert. A setter-dog 
came running up, but Hal did not wait to get 
acquainted, and as he left the spring a load of 
shot whizzed past his head, but Hal had left 
the unwelcome spot and carefully picked his 
course the remainder of the day, and through 
the weary hours his heart was fixed upon one 
purpose and one spot, and that was home, and 
the thought gave renewed strength to his ach- 
ing muscles ; and above all, he began to recog- 
nize landmarks which told him that it was but a 
few days' journey to the river country. There 
were many farmhouses about him, and strange 
dogs ran out to intercept him, but he passed 



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them and pushed on. When almost overcome 
by hunger he slunk around to the back-door of 
a farmhouse where there were no dogs. A 
kindly faced woman threw him something to 
eat, and the ravenous way in which he ate it 
caused her to give him something more. A man 
came out of a stable with a rope and said, 
''That looks like a good dog, we will tie him 
up," but Hal saw the rope and made a hurried 
departure. On, on, until at last he could almost 
imagine that he could smell the green of the 
river hills. His feet were swollen and his eyes 
were bloodshot from hunger and weariness, 
but, somehow, he felt that it was the last day of 
the journey, and he limped on, sustained by the 
one thought of home. The glorious morn was 
breaking, the purple shadows from the east 
were melting into the golden russet bars; the 
violet eyes of the morn were opening, a red-bird 
sang in a dog-wood tree, and his song filled all 
the fragrant air with melody. The heavy 
shadows of the night were lifting under the 
rosy dawn, and Hal was on the river hills, and 
there across the river was the old home, the 
white columns of the porch standing out 
through the evergreen trees — how sweet, how 
restful and beautiful to his eyes. Down into 
the cool waters of the Ohio he made his way. 



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It was the last struggle and bravely did 
he make it, and as he shook his dripping 
sides on the Kentucky shore, he gave vent to 
one glorious yelp of joy, for he was home. 

"Good Lor', Mars Pence," said old Josh as 
he knocked at his master's door, "come out 
hyar, fo' de Ian' sakes !" And as the old Major 
came out on the porch, he threw up his hands 
and exclaimed : 

"Well, bless my soul, if it ain't Hal !" Hal 
looked up with an appealing glance as the old 
Major patted him on the head. "Feed him. 
Josh, and take good care of that dog." 

And Hal knew that he had come home to stay. 



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THE NEW PIANO. 

When the new pianer come, 
Naber gals they played it some, 
And they'd set an' paw an' thrum 

Tunes they said the masters played. 
So they said, but nary time 
Did th' new keys seem to chime 
To that good old-fashioned rhyme 

Of a softer, sweeter grade. 

Aunt Jemimy come to town, 

Kinder visitin' aroim,' 

An' one day she sets her down 

On the stool an' softly plays 
"Wakin' up at 'arly morn," 
An' "The tassel's on the corn" — 
Bully tunes that jes' wuz born 

To the joy of other days. 

Course, her fingers they wuz old, 
But they had a touch of gold ; 
An' that new pianer told 

Jes' how happy youth had been. 
Naber gals they kinder sneer. 
An' they don't pertend to hear. 
But I'll never hoist my yeer 

Till Jemimy comes agin. 



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"HERE! LITTLE PONTO, HERE!" 

Yes, that little dog that's limpin' out there, 

An' diggin' holes all in the lawn, 
He does jes' sort as he pleases now 

Since our little Ted's been gone. 
'Twuz strange to me, for I couldn't see 

How a dog could be so dear, 
Till I heard the call of that little boy, 

''Here! little Ponto, here!" 

That same little dog, oh ! to see him come 

With his eyes to meet my gaze, 
And we set here alone to sadly view 

The scenes of their joyous plays, 
An' he looks toward me with a human look 

As I wipe off the gath'ring tear. 
An' I fancy he's waiting to hear Ted call, 

"Here ! little Ponto, here !" 

When the wind comes up from the river side 

An' rustles the ivy vines. 
An' hastens away on its distant course 

To sigh thro' the heavy pines, 
Then we sit down here in the deep'ning shade 

Thro' the turn of the rolling year. 
An' I'd give my all jes' to hear that call, 

"Here! little Ponto, here!" 



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When the dark draws nigh you will find that 
dog 

Curled up on the trundle bed, 
Down close at the foot, where he always slep', 

Jes' to be near his best friend, Ted ; 
Yes, that little dog was a friend to him, 

A friend with a joyous cheer, 
And our hearts both yearn for that childish 
voice, 

"Here! little Ponto, here!" 



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WHEN OSCAR SMOKES HIS 
CIGARETTE. 

Thar he sets, 

My Oscar with his cigarettes, 
A-puffin' out th' clouds uv smoke — 
Sometimes I wish thet he ud choke, 
Still puffin' thar with both eyes shet. 
An' thar I set, an' sigh an' sweat, 
As Oscar smokes his cigarette. 

He's twenty-one, 

His school days done. 

I sent him off to school to learn 

The better things, an' not these durn 

Outlandish habits ; you kin bet 

Old Satan makes me pay a debt 

When Oscar smokes a cigarette. 

An' thar he sets, 
Smokes cigarettes, 

An' blows the smoke out thro' his nose ; 
Dressed indirectly in my clothes — 
I paid fer 'em, the goodness knows ; 
But what's the diffrunce, I must let 
The thing go on — he's mother's pet, 
This Oscar who smokes cigarettes. 



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He blows the smoke in little rings — 

The cussed things, 

They look jes' like a hangman's noose; 

But what's th' use 

In bustin' loose, 

An' lettin' out in hard abuse, 

For mother still is singin' yet 

As Oscar smokes his cigarette. 

An' mother still is singin' yet, 

I'm dreamin' now, my eyes air wet, 

An' Oscar is a boy agen, 

An' settin' on my knee, an' then 

Thar ain't much harm, I reckon now. 

In smokin' paper, ennyhow, 

For he's my boy, I love him yet — 

Say, Os, gimme a cigarette ! 



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THE TRIALS OF OVERMAN. 

He came into the office just about twilight, 
and drew a chair close up to the glowing fire, 
and after he had hung his snow-laden hat on the 
corner of the mantelpiece, where it could drain 
off into my overshoes, he said, 

"How's things?" 

"Very good," said I ; "how's things with you, 
Overman?" 

He gave his arms a little shake, which made 
his celluloid cuffs rattle, and after he had ad- 
justed his pea-green cravat satisfactorily he 
answered, 

"Bad, Jim, bad !" 

"How bad. Overman?" 

As he turned his full face toward me, I 
caught the overwhelming odor of gin and 
onions; I moved toward the window and 
observed, 

"Yes, things must be getting bad, Overman." 

"Well, Jim," said he, "I always did have my 
trials from the time I first learnt to walk for 
myself, and as I once heard a fellow say, ^if 
money growed on trees I'd have the rheuma- 
tism and couldn't climb.' You know the first 
job I ever got was mud clerk on a steamboat, 



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and the first bill I made out I put three 'oughts' 
after the figger i, when the amount was a dol- 
lar, and the head clerk got funny and said there 
was a good many things that I 'ought' to learn, 
and I up and told him that my daddy cert'n'y 
ought to beat h — 1 out of me for gettin' on a 
steamboat where they have a club-footed gorilla 
for head clerk. 

"I went off at the next landing, and as I 
walked back thirty miles home I had plenty of 
time to reflec' how I had busted up my career 
as a steamboat-man, and the only pair of 
breeches I had in the fight with the clerk. 

"Nothin' I have ever did has fulfilled my ex- 
pectations. I started a small grocery, but the 
sheriff took me in after I had been good enough 
to credit everybody in the neighborhood, but 
there wasn't much left as assets. I remember 
when the stock was gettin' low one of my old 
credit customers come in and says, 

" 'Got any meat, sugar, coffee, or anything in 
the eatin' line?' 

" 'Not a thing,' says I. 

" 'Well, what have you got?' says he. 

" 'Nothin' but clothes-pins and tooth- 
brushes,' says I. 

" 'Well, gimme a dollar's worth of tooth- 
brushes and charge 'em,' says he. And the next 
day the sheriff took me in. 



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"I've always been up agin it, Jim. I never 
even tried to play a joke but what I got the hot 
end of it, like as the time I went to Cincinnati 
to see the Order of Cincinnatus. Every hotel 
was crowded, but I finally struck a little place, 
and the clerk says that he give me a room pro- 
vided I allow anybody to sleep with me who 
comes in. I took him up, and about two in the 
mornin' the nigger porter brings up a red-eyed 
feller who looks like he has been drunk a month, 
and he begins to undress. I says, thinkin' I 
would bluff him out, 

" 'My friend, I don't want to scare you, but I 
think it best to tell you that I've got the seven- 
year itch !' 

" 'That don't make no diffunce,' says he, as 
he spit on the wall, 'fer I've had it fer two 
years.' 

"So, of course, Jim, I had to git out. 

"But I didn't come here to tell you all these 
tales of woe, for I could talk to you a month 
on that line; but I want to tell you just how I've 
lost the chance of my life of gettin' married to 
a woman who has a little something in her own 
name, all on account of a chaw tobacker — a 
measly, insignificant chaw tobacker. 

"I needn't tell you how I met her years ago, 
before she married Tom Childers, who left her 



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a widder and his farm ; but anyhow, my third 
call was when the thing flickered and convinced 
me that the best thing I can do is to apply for 
keeper of the poorhouse, but of course I 
wouldn't get that. 

*'You know how these things go, Jim, when a 
widder is all starched up and ornamented with 
musk and perfume. It ain't no use for me to tell 
you how I got along in the new rig I got out of 
Lawrence & Co. on prospects, but it was a cozy 
time, the widder laughin' and in the best of 
humor when I says, 

"They tell me that you've been a-visitin' over 
on the pike?" 

" 'Yes,' says she, 'but visitin' over on the pike 
ain't what it's cracked up to be, for although 
you get to see lots of people passin', yet half the 
time you don't know who they air, and when 
you do know 'em you don't know where they're 

goin' to.' 

"This goes to show you, Jim, the peculiarity 
of a woman's curiosity ; but all the time that she 
was laughin' and talkin' I was dyin' for a chew 
of tobacker, and when the widder rocked back 
and looked toward the ceiling, I bit off a chaw 
and told her that yarn about the three-legged 
mule, and when I finished I found there was 
nothin' to spit in, and I had to spit, and I went 



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to the door, and when I spit I heard a bulldog 
growl and whizz around the house and I 
knowed that I'd hit him close to the eyes, and 
when I come back the widder says, 

" Wouldn't you just as soon spit on the 
stove as on the dog?' and, continued she, ^I've 
heard it said that a hos: won't eat tobacker.' 

'' 'Well,' said I, 'a hog won't eat tomaters, 
either/ 

" 'That's neither here nor there,' says she, 
'but my husband was a man who didn't leave 
behind a trail of tobacker ambeer and cigar 
stumps.' 

"I arose, seein' that the jig was up, and said, 
'Cigar stumps and ambeer ain't the only trails 
I've seen in this world, if I've ever heard any- 
thing about boss traders and spavined bosses ;' 
and the widder, knowin' I alluded to her de- 
parted, bit her lip and told me to git out. The 
goin' from her was easy enough, but the way I 
was detained by that bulldog at the wood pile, 
and the way the widder took sides with him 
before the fight was over, has convinced me 
that there is a powerful bond of sympathy be- 
tween some bulldogs and some widders." 



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OLE MAN HARPER. 

Ole man Harper's gone to rest, 

Sleepin' whar the blue-grass blows 
On the upland's verdant crest 

Whar the merry daisy grows ; 
Ten Broeck's slab of marble white 

Glistens 'neath the golden sun, 
By the paddock whar the might 

And glory of his fame begun. 

Love that race-hoss ? Time o' day ! 

Harper loved him like a child, 
And the first quick tremblin' neigh 

Ringin' from the woodland wild 
Fell upon ole Harper's yeer 

Like a strain of music sweet; 
Wa'n't no music he could hear 

Like the tread of race-hoss feet. 

Yes, I saw that four-mile run 

Down at Louisville in July. 
Hot? — it seem'd the br'ilin' sun 

Flamed the clouds along the sky. 
Ten Broeck, white with lathered foam. 

Like an eagle cut the air, 
Brought his colors safely home. 

Writ his name in history there. 



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Ole Kentucky saw that day 

All her native pride retained ; 
Couldn't hold their joy in sway 

When they knowed the race was gained- 
Ole man Harper's gone to rest, 

Sleepiri' whar the blue-grass blows, 
Ten Broeck's slab is on the crest 

Whar the merry daisy grows. 



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TRUMBO CHEATUM, JOCK. 

The ebony-hued individual bearing this name 
first saw the light of day in a cabin on one of 
the great race-horse farms of the beautiful Blue- 
Grass country. The old hand-scales of the 
farm showed his weight at 7 lbs. the day after 
he was born, and his mother joyously ex- 
claimed, as she fondly gazed upon him, "Dat 
boy air sho' bawn fo' a rider!" Those were 
happy days which followed for little Trumbo, 
rolling in the shade of the big oaks and strip- 
ping the clustering seeds of the blue-grass with 
his short chubby fingers ; and when four years 
had put his nimble leg's on the run he hung 
about the stables and watched his father as he 
groomed the great horses and cared for the 
youngster thoroughbreds ; and Trumbo' s dad- 
die was proud of him, for General Carlson, the 
owner of the farm, had patted the boy on the 
head and remarked, "He'll make a jockey some 
day." 

The years rolled little Trumbo into .the sad- 
dle at ten, as an "exercising" boy, and his heart 
was never so glad as when he sat bouncing on 
the back of a yearling or two-year-old, jogging 
around the soft spongy track. As he grew 



33 



sprigs o' Mint 



older, his mounts became more important, his 
hand steady, and his judgment in "working 
out" a horse superb. He never missed a day 
from the saddle, and he was longing for the 
happy hour when he would be allowed to ride 
in a real race before thousands of spectators. 
Obedient to every suggestion of the trainer, he 
grew rapidly in favor, and one morning he was 
informed that he was to ride in the Maiden 
Stakes at Lexington the following week, and 
then there was a wild flutter in his heart — he 
was to wear the orange and green of the Gen- 
eral's stable, and to ride Miss Nancy, the crack 
filly of the bunch. 

The skies hung with a softened blueness that 
May-day afternoon. The horses came out from 
the stables, the jockeys mounted and came down 
by the grand-stand to line up for the start. 
TrumbO' came last, but he sat calm and easy in 
his saddle, and there on the grand-stand was 
the General and his wife and the two girls of the 
family, who had always been so kind to him. 
But away over on the end reserved for the peo- 
ple of his own race, was a face which caught 
his eye above all others, the eye that beamed 
love upon him — it was his mammy's face, and 
as he rode by she called out, "Dar's my boy !" 

"They're off!" came from a thousand 
throats, and amid a cloud of dust the bunch 

34 



sprigs o' Mint 



went around the first bend. Miss Nancy was not 
heard from at the first quarter, nor was her 
name mentioned at the half, and not until they 
swung around the three-quarter did the orange 
and green begin to show. But when they came 
into the stretch. Miss Nancy was reaching for 
the leading horse, two lengths behind. *'Come 
on, Trumbo!" the stable boys yelled ; ^'Come on, 
Trumbol" General Carlson shouted; "Come on, 
Trumbo !" old black mammy screamed. Trumbo 
let his whip fall for the first time, and nobly 
did his mount respond. Miss Nancy's nose was 
at the stirrup of the leading horse — the wire was 
but a short distance away — but as they swept 
under it, Miss Nancy's nose pushed to the front 
and Trumbo had won. 

What glory, when he came back to the 
Judge's stand! The stable boys were there; 
the General was there, and mammy was fight- 
ing her way through the crowd, shouting, 
"Dat's my boy! Dat's my boy!" Trumbo was 
a jockey now, and winner of his first race. 
Prosperous days followed, and before the end 
of two years his name had gained fame, and he 
was sought by the millionaire race-horse owners 
of the East. The old farm, the cabin, and 
mammy were forgotten in the glamor of his 
halcyon days. At Sheepshead, at Brighton, St. 



35 



sprigs o' Mint 



Louis, and Chicago his name was in the fore- 
most Hst of winners. But the under-tow which 
wrecks so many of this class was working its 
way into the vigor and constitution of Trumbo. 
Late hours and high hving^ — the luxurious 
desires of an untutored mind, gratified by ample 
funds ; saff ron-hued damsels to breathe poison 
into the bending ear; wine to stimulate the 
waning power of bygone days — from wine to 
whiskey, from whiskey to cheap gin, and then 
the dark hour, after dissipation had scattered 
all its thorns, to hear the words, ^'You are too 
heavy to ride, your day is done!" 

Poor Trumbo, drunk and blear-eyed, sought 
friend after friend, but they knew him not He 
pawned the few pieces of jewelry left and 
turned his weary heart toward the spot so long 
forgotten, and one night, when the moon came 
swinging above the rolling meadows, he tapped 
gently on the cabin door. 

"Who's dat?" came from a familiar voice. 

"Trumbo, mammy. Tse come home." 

"Bress Gord, bress Gordl" And as she 
folded him to her old black bosom, the glory 
and misery of his feverish career faded from his 
heart and he slept in the old bed by the south 
window and dreamed of barefoot days and 
happy voices at the cabin side. 



26 



sprigs o' Mint 



THE OLD GHENT BAND. 

I've heard Gilmore, and heard Innes, 

And Dan Gordon's British Guards. 
I've heard strains of grandest music 

From the bands of navy yards. 
I've heard Strauss, and other orchestras 

From many a foreign land, 
But the music that first caught me 

Was the old Ghent band. 

George Howard played the alto, 

And Sam Floward played the lead. 
All of the boys had lusty lungs 

To give them wind and speed. 
I can't recall the one just now 

Who beat the big bass-drum, 
But who he was, he beat her till 

She hollered Kingdom Come. 

And Charley Grey, he played some horn, 

Fred Schirmer blew the bass, 
And when Fred blew, a toy balloon 

Came in his honest face. 
Some fellow would be trailing 

About fifteen bars behind. 
Pretending that he's reading notes. 

Or something of that kind. 



Z7 



sprigs o' Mint 



'Twas "We'll wait for the wagon," 

And "We'll chase the buffalo." 
You never heard hot music 

Till you heard those fellows blow. 
It seemed a ray from heaven 

Shot across my boyish soul 
When those boys would get their wind up 

And make the music roll. 

The drums were kind o' flabby, 

But they swashed 'em just the same, 
And next day both the drummer's arms 

Were very sore and lame. 
And often when the boys would stop 

To rest and smoke a bit. 
They'd turn those old horns upside down 

'N' they'd leak a barrel of spit. 

My ! how I used to stand around 

To hear some fellow say, 
"Tell all the boys to meet to-night. 

The band's agoin' to play." 
And no prayers, or no pleadings 

Could keep me in that night. 
I'd skin down the old apple-tree 

And take my joyous flight. 



38 



Sprigs o' Mint 



The boys all now have scattered 

And the horns are heard no more, 
And some of those in that old band 

Have reached the other shore. 
I'd like to be a boy again, 

Back in that joyous day. 
When standing by with raptured ears, 

I heard that old band play. 



39 



Sprigs o' Mint 



WHEN MOLLIE CAME HOME. 

The other day as I stood gazing toward the 
distant turn of the hills, where the river bends 
so gracefully on the vision, I recalled the day, 
several years ago, when Tommie Donahue 
stood here, and in his exquisite brogue told me 
of the home-coming of his wife. Uncle Tom- 
mie was the most magnificent son of Erin that I 
ever saw — his voice was deep and rich, and his 
great black eyes shone with eloquence and ten- 
derness. Standing with folded arms, he gazed 
long and earnestly tov/ard the Ohio as it coursed 
its way so placidly between the hills, and I 
shall never forget his words. 

''Me friend," said he, "Oi niver look upon thot 
sthrame widout a thrill comin' into me heart, 
for it brought the dearest happiness me auld 
heart has iver knowed. Oi'd been wurkin' 
hereabouts nigh onto sivin years, all the toime 
layin' a little aside for the little home I wor 
buildin' for me an' Mollie. Oi heard from her 
so often in the auld kintry, an' ivery letter wor 
a-longin' for me, an' at last Oi had the spot of 
ground an' the house paid for, an' the money 
was on the way to bring Mollie across the dis- 
tant sea. Oi had planted all the swatest roses 



40 



Sprigs o' Mint 



Oi could get in the little yard — Oi knowed she 
loved thim so well, an' ivery day Oi added 
somethin' to the inside of the house to make 
her heart glad in her new home, an' wan day, 
there come a letter from New York, an' in a 
few days I git a tilegraf from Cincinnati that 
she would be down on the boat that noight. Oi 
couldn't hould mesilf for joy, an' Oi wor at the 
Ghint wharf early wid a rinted horse an' spring 
wagon early a-waitin' for the boat, an' what a 
glorious noight it wor. The moon samed it wor 
made for me, an' Oi niver knowed how swate 
an' millow wor its light befoore, an' the stars 
wor twinklin' the same as they used to twinkle 
in the auld days around Kildare, whin Mollie 
an' me looked into thim wid eyes of love. Oh, 
iverything come back, an' Oi saw the tinder days 
whin we clam' the rocks, an' Oi a-holdin' her 
hand, an' her cheeks as red as the wild rose Oi 
pinned upon her bosom. An' Mollie wor comin' 
to me ! Oi walked the shore wid me eyes 
sthrained on the bind up there — how swate the 
little waves sounded as they whuspered on the 
white rocks of the shore, an' ivery murmur wor 
sayin' 'Mollie.' 

''At last I saw a blessed light comin' around 
the bind, an' Oi heard the paddles of the mail- 
boat's whale, makin' swate music on the wather, 



41 



sprigs o' Mint 



an' it wor music to me. Nearer an' nearer she 
come, an' her gold hghts that bamed out made 
her same hke an angel to me, bringin' me a mis- 
sige of gladness ! An' thin Oi heard her whistle 
blow, an' it echoed an' echoed among the hills, 
an' ivery dying note wor sayin', 'Tommie, Oi'm 
aboord.' An' thin she rounded into the Vavay 
wharf, an' it samed so long as she lay there 
takin' on freight, an' jist the river between me, 
an' Mollie. At last she rung her bell an' swung 
her nose toward the dear auld Kentucky shore, 
an' as she come slidin' in on a slow bell, Oi see 
a little woman wave her han' on the gyards, an' 
Oi knowed it wor Mollie's face under the little 
old-fashioned hat! Me heart wor too full to 
spake, but whin the boat landed we sprung into 
aich other's arms, an' divil of a wurd we say, 
but jist wept for joy. 

"An' the ride home through the moonlight, 
an' what great joy for her heart whin she 
stipped inside the dure of her own home, an' as 
she looked around, wid hiven in her eyes, she 
says, 

" 'O Tommie, the good Lord hilt out His 
hand to me; Oi stepped in, an' He lifted me 
over the broad sea an' set me down in Pari- 
dise!'" 



42 



Sprigs o' Mint 



NIGGER JESS. 



In some way he was given the prefix of 
"Nio-°-er" by the other darkies on the place, 
possibly owing to the fact that he was such a 
strange combination mentally and physically. 
Old Aunt Mandy used to say, "Des' at de time 
you think dat nigger gwine do suthm foolish 
he tu'n in an' do suthin' smart ; an des at de 
time you think he gwine do suthm' smart, he 
bus' he' thinkin' string an' do suthm dat play 
de devil ginerally— lack as de time ole Miss 
sont far him ter wait on de table when Jinny, 
de reg'ler table gal, wuz sick, an' one cle big 
lawyers tole a funny story an' meek a funny 
face, an' Nigger Jess des' slap he waiter agm 
he' knee an' holler out, 'Gord Ermi'ty! an he 
whirl he' waiter while he laflen' an' hit ole Mars 
on de haid, an' ole Mars's son Tomp hafter 
lunge him out inter de kitchen by de seat uv ne 
britches, an' arter Jess git inter de kitchen, he 
Stan' dar an' laff an' lafl lack de fool he wuz an 
say, 'Gord Ermi'ty ! 'd yaw dat man meek a 

"Aunt Mandy, won't you ^ tell me about the 
time Jess joined the circus?" 



43 



sprigs o' Mint 



"Lor', honey, I hate ter talk about dat fool 
nigger ; but yo' see hit wuz dis way. Ole Mars 
never let Jess go ter town by he'se'f, kase he 
fear he never git back ; but when de big circus 
cum ter town, de whole fambly, white an' black, 
'cept ole Miss, who stay at home wid her ole 
brother Oby, lite out fer de circus, an' Nigger 
Jess des' laffen lack he wuz crazy when he heah 
de ban's playin' ; but when he git inside whar 
de animules wuz growlin', yo' would a' died ter 
see him showin' de whites uv his eyes an' 
keepin' still. But somehow when de show wuz 
ovah nobody could fine Jess, an' dat night when 
we cum home ole Mars say, 'Dat nigger gone 
wid dat show. I see hit in he' eye.' 

"Time wen' on an' nobody heah fum Jess, 
but 'bout a year fum dat time anudder circus 
cum ter town, an' we all beg Mars ter let us go, 
an' endurin' uv de perfawmence de ring-mars- 
ter cum out wid a trick mule an' low dat he give 
ennybody ten dollars fer ter ride dat mule ; an' 
mine you, a little black, rusty-lookin' nigger 
cum slidin' out fum one side de tent an' jumped 
straddle dat mule, an' when I see dat nig-ger's 
crooked laigs goin' up in de air ovah de back 
dat mule, somebody holler out, 'Dat nigger's 
hired by de show !' an' I say, 'I reckun he is, fer 
hit's Nigger Jess;' an' 'bout dat time de mule 



44 



sprigs o' Mint 



cum 'round close ter whar we wuz, an' I holler 
out, *Hole tight ter him, Jess ; hole ter him !' an' 
Jess fergit he' trick an' look ovah tode whar we 
black folks set, an' dat mule give he'se'f a sorter 
twis' an' hump an' Jess landed right inter our 
mi'st an' he holler back ter de ring-marster, 
^I'm gwine stay heah ! Teck yo' ole show an' git 
somebody else ter feed yo' ole hyeeners, fer I'm 
gwine home !' 

^'Yes, sail, home he did go wid us dat night, 
an' ole Mars say he hafter let him stay, kase, 
as he say, 'Nigger Jess is a per fee' show he'se'f 
since he cum back.' 

"De naix day ole Mars sot out on de front 
porch an' teck he' big pipe outen he' mouf an' 
say, 'Jess, air yo' glad ter git back?' an' Jess 
say, 'Gord, 'Mi'ty, Marse Levi, I reckun I is; 
fer tain' no fun sleepin' 'round dem animerls, 
de way dey cut up an' smell. But when dey 
feed dem animerls an' bastes, an' den feed de 
niggers, yo' boun' ter see dat a nigger hain't in 
it wid de bastes, an' hain't got ha'f as much 
chanct 'roun' a circus as a bob-tailed h3^eener.' 



7 J7 



45 



jrigs o' Mint 



THE NIGHT IT BLOWED IN GHENT. 

Yo' ever hear of the night it bio wed, 

Up in old Ghent beneath the hills; 
When the dust shot down each country road, 

An' the gravel flew like leaden pills? 
Oh ! the night was dark, and the moon was hid, 

An' the gloom of death hung o'er the town. 
An' when I passed through with Nigger Skid, 

The signs was all blowed down. 

The waves roared down on the river shore, 

An' lashed and ripped agin the hull 
Of the old wharf boat, till Matthews swore. 

An' made for town with a hefty pull, 
An' the wharf on the Vevay side was sunk. 

An' the roof sailed over the shiv'ring town. 
An' all they saved was an old hair trunk — 

An' the signs was all blowed down. 

An' over in Ghent, the wind she took 

A good long grip and chased herself. 
It whizzed up each alley and garden nook, 

It rattled the china upon each shelf, 
An' it blowed Hack Landrum's breath away. 

An' turned his taste to an ice-cold brown. 
An' blowed the pump handle to work, they 
say — 

An' the signs was all blowed down. 

46 



Sprigs o' Mint 



An' it blowed Rip out of a poker game, 

An' blowed him home to bed, 
An' it blowed the nip of a lantern's flame 

Clean thro' the glass, they said. 
An' it blowed the stink of the old hog pens 

Clear out to Williamstown, 
An' it blowed the foxes out of their dens — 

An' the signs was all blowed down. 

Ye dads ! 'twas a twister of a storm, 

An' it made one duck to think. 
How it blowed a mortgage from a farm, 

An' a man who was full of drink, 
An' layin' twix' Unser's an' Tandy's wall, 

It whizzed him an' buzzed him aroun', 
Till it landed him up at Good Templars' Hall— 

An' the signs was all blowed down. 

An' I asked John Harper at early morn, 

Next day when the sun rode high. 
If ever at all since he was born 

Did he hear wind rip the sky ? 
An' John shoved a checker across the boards 

An' answered with semblance of a frown, 
"Oh, she ripped and reared, an' moaned an' 
roared — 

An' the signs was all blowed down." 



47 



sprigs o' Mint 



BLACK SAMMY. 

He was just a little pickaninny coon, his 
greasy face and kinky head forming a picture 
against the hazy sky. He looked so forlorn 
and lonely sitting there on the old beech log, 
gazing out upon the river. His black little 
hands held the battered remains of a tin toy 
horn. As I came up I noticed that he was cry- 
ing, and when I asked, ^'What's the matter, 
Sammy ?" he turned for a moment, and such an 
expression of wretchedness on his face as he 
answered, ''Mammy's gawn, an' bin gawn all 
day." He brushed the tears away and strained 
his eyes again trying to catch a glimpse of 
mammy, but mammy was not in sight, and 
Sammy was inconsolable, and hugged his little 
horn closer, and cried in a softer tone. As I 
turned to go I saw a woman coming down the 
hill carrying a basket on her head. It was 
Sammy's mammy, and as she turned the corner 
he, too, saw her, and it would have done you 
good to see the joyous light which came into 
his eyes — the beam of happiness on his face. 
The clouds had left the sky, and one glorious 
gleam of gladness shot athwart the soul of little 
black Sammy. 



48 



sprigs o' Mint 



WHEN BLOOD WASN'T SHED. 

"Wal," said Uncle Bill, as he laid down the 
paper, *T see whar the Northern papers is 
crackin' at Old Kentucky agin about the little 
differences we have down hyar, an' frum what 
they say, they must think that we go out every 
mornin' an' kill a man jes' fer an appetizer. 

"Sometimes these things strike me as funny, 
I have been livin' hyar for sixty year, an' I have 
seen a heap of fighters, an' I have seen a heap 
of so-called fights where it was all bluff. You 
remember that mowin'-machine agent who was 
hyar last summer, — the one who cussed the 
blizzards out of Tom Stevenson for misplacin' 
some of the parts of his machine, — an' how 
Tom goes off to borrow a revolver to shoot the 
livin' lights outen him; but as he comes back 
by the store he inquires whar the machine man 
comes frum, an' Buck Gaines says, ^He comes 
frum Illynois, but was raised up at Mt. Sterlin', 
Kentucky.' An' Tom kinder turns white an' 
says, 'Well, hit's a good thing that he weren't 
a durn Yankee that cussed me that way, or he'd 
a shorely had to die.' Tom had business over 



49 



sprigs o* Mint 



tode the station an' didn't come back till the 
machine man had gone. I mention this jes' to 
show you that the flaver of the sile has some- 
thin' to do with it — his birth-place has a good 
deal of bearin' on his general fiehtin' perclivi- 
ties, an' I have seen some of the wust feared 
men at home git up an' carry the mail in strange 
diggins. 

''Fightin' in an' around home comes natch- 
eral, I reckun, whar a feller knows he has got 
ter run fer office some day, or be referred to as 



a honored citizen when he is gone. 

"I never will fergit the time when I went out 
to eat Thanksgivin' dinner with Larry Sanders, 
an' after dinner, Larry takes me out over the 
place to show me the general run of things. 
We passed by a cedar tree enclosed with a brick 
wall. 

" 'Who's buried thar ?' I asked. 

" 'Uncle Jack's grave,' says Larry, with a 
kinder sneer. 'He was a good fiddler before he 
went off to the Mexican war, an' the boys said 
he was always in the front at every charge, but 
he comes back here an' let a little hard-shell, 
consumptive preacher spit in his face because 
he rediculed his way of preachin'. Uncle Jack 
said, bein' he was a preacher an' in bad health, 
was all that saved him ; but Uncle Jack seemed 
to pine away an' kinder lost faver in the com- 

50 



sprigs o' Mint 



munity, but claimed he had gained faver in the 
sight of the Lord ; but you see he hain't got no 
tombstone over his grave !' 

''But speakin' of these hyar references to the 
old State in the papers, it hain't no use denyin' 
that if you are lookin' fer trouble, you don't 
hafter look long ; but it hain't all the time that 
the fuss of big pistols and flash of steel means 
that clear cold grit has come to speak. But I 
shorely do believe that when a man comes right 
out an' says, '1 am not a fightin' man,' in the 
face of insult, and hangs out his sign as a cow- 
ard, he has a mighty lonesome time of it 
Fightin' hyar in Kentucky is kerried on jes' 
about with the same intrust an' enthoosiasm as 
in other States, prob'lv with a little difference 
as to action and style, an' mebbe with more de- 
termination as to general finish ; but I have seen 
some of the biggest scrimmages started hyar 
when I thought that a dozen men would be 
killed, an' they'd end without a gallus bein' 

busted. 

"Who of you don't remember the barbecue 
down at Cox's? You remember when old 
Thomps Fisher was makin' a speech an' Jim 
Winfield hollers out the lie. You heerd the 
clickin' of pistols all around then. Old Thomps 
turns white an' grabs a board an' smashes it 
over Jim Winfield' s head, an' at the same time 

51 



Sprigs o' Mint 



somebody hits old Thomps over the back with 
a rail. Old Thomps kinder grunts, but hell was 
flashin' from his eyes, an' he steadies hisself and 
clinches with Monroe Travis, who he thought 
hit him. They was two of the biggest an' fat- 
test men in the county, an' it was a grand sight 
as they rolled an' pounded on the soft ground, 
an' finally they rolls into the dry bed of the 
creek bottom, whar the men had cleaned Liie 
sheep before barbecuin' them; an' as Thom.ps 
an' Monroe rolls over the bank, they comes 
smack-dab onto the leavin's of the sheep, an' 
Monroe, reachin' his hand under him, feels the 
sheep entrils, an' hollers out, 'Take him off, 
he's cut my innerds out!' Monroe gits up, 
holdin' to the sheep entrils, an' moanin', *Git a 
doctor, boys, he's ripped me open !' Somebody 
hollers out, 'You hain't cut, drap them sheep 
guts !' An' Monroe looks foolish an' says. The 
drinks air on me, boys.' 

"Ev'rybody makes friends that day, an' 
Thomps an' Monroe shuck hands an' drinked 
outen the same gourd. Monroe beat old 
Thomps an' went to the legislature, an' got 
through all right with jes' one fight, an' that 
was when a little feller from centril Kentucky 
asked him if they raised much sheep down in 
his diggin's, and Monroe hit him an' got a crack 
in the eye before matters was explained. 

52 



Sprigs o Mint 

"No, as I said before, it depends a whole lot 
on your surroundings an' who your wife's peo- 
ple was when it comes to fightin', an' if them 
Northern papers would send a good man down 
hyar, they'd find these hyar people as much 
agin fightin' as anybody; but if I'd see a 
Yankee gittin' up anythin' agin us to write, as 
much as I value my reputation fer peace an' 
religion, I'd take a shot er two at him myself. 

"Gimme a pound of Arbuckle's coffee, I must 
git home." 



53 



>rigfs o' Mint 



GONE TO TEXAS. 

Old Aunt Bet has gone to Texas ; 

Uncle John went with her there — 
Mighty sad to see them leavin', 

With their white and silvered hair. 
Seems fer years they've been a-driftin' 

Round with kinfolks in Kaintuck 
Till they kinder wore their welcome, 

And they've gone to live with Buck. 
Buck lives down below Galveston 

On a sheep ranch, so they say, 
And he written, sent the money. 

And they left the other day. 

When they left down at the station. 

Kinder waved a sad farewell. 
Aunt Bet drawed her little kerchief. 

Tried to ketch the tears that fell. 
Settin' there beside each other, 

Gazin' through the winder pane, 
Kinder holdin' hands together, 

Waitin' fer the startin' train 
That was goin' to bear them onward 

From the scenes of happier years. 
All the old friends left behind them — 

That was shorely time for tears. 



54 



sprigs o' Mint 



Lord, to think what Uncle John had 

In what's called his pammy days ! 
Hogs and hosses, sheep and cattle 

By the hundreds used to graze 
On his blue-grass — and the mansion 

Was a palace with its cheer. 
Never was a time when kinfolks 

Wasn't visitin' him out there — 
Just to hear the shouts and laughter 

When they'd scooped in many a dram, 
And had gormandized his victuals. 

Now they ain't a-keerin' a d — m 
If old John has gone to Texas — 

Only feered that he won't stay 
Out there. Oh, there ain't much welcome 

When you're pore and in the way. 

Old Aunt Bet has gone to Texas, 

Took her trinkets all along; 
Old hair trunk held all their baggage. 

Old trunks they ain't very strong, 
And if them rough baggage-smashers 

Bust that trunk upon the track. 
All the money of the railroad 

Couldn't bring its contents back. 
There's the little shoes and stockin's 

Of their little girl who died; 
'Twas the first one of their heartlove. 

Golden hair and sunny-eyed. 

55 



Sprigs o' Mint 



And the trinkets saved for ages, 

Handed down through changing years, 

Old daguerreotypes of loved ones 
Who had left this vale of tears. 

Aunt Bet's shawl was kinder threadbare 

When she made the journey's start, 
But that boy way down in Texas, 

With his big and manly heart. 
He will fold his arms around her 

And her dear old soul will know 
That there's sunshine down in Texas 

And that Buck has made the glow. 
Old Aunt Bet has gone to Texas, 

Uncle John went with her there ; 
May the Lord bring comfort to them. 

With their white and silvered hair. 



56 



sprigs o' Mint 



MARTIN BOLAN. 

How well do I remember the swarthy, 
weather-tamied face under the old white hat, 
and the great broad shoulders, the powerful 
arms and deep chest of my old-time friend, 
Martin Bolan, the ferryman; and from out the 
memories of the dear river scenes he stands out 
as the happiest remembrance of those happy 
days. I can see him. now, coming along the 
shore, crunching the gravel in his great strides, 
and chopping out the chorus of some old folk- 
lore song; and as he swings the big ferry oar 
over the side of the boat the muscles of his neck 
swell into huge knots and he stands the perfec- 
tion of manly strength and health; and his 
heart set in that majestic frame was in keeping 
with the big constructive scale of his being — 
warm emotions nestled there, kindness and 
courage locked hands over the portal of his 
bosom; the music of a baby's voice stirred the 
depths of his rugged soul. The most charm- 
ing of nature's poems to him were the river and 
the sweet green hills, for with these around him 
he had grown to manhood, and they had been 
interwoven into the very spirit of his youthful 
dreams. 

57 



Sprigs o' Mint 



Ah, the happy days when I caught his big 
rough hand and wandered with him under the 
tall sycamore trees and among the rocks, where 
we would sit and gaze far down to the south- 
ward where the blue sheen of the Ohio lost it- 
self in the great bend of the sombre hills, and on 
sunny days when the breeze wandered on the 
northern track, he gave me the rudder of his 
staunch-made boat, and drawing the white 
sheets taut to the wind, we would speed away 
together and explore the hidden beauties of the 
murmuring creeks and little islands which dot- 
ted the stream. He knew the river as the petrel 
knows the sea, and whether in the May-day 
calm or in winter's chilling blast, he stepped 
into his boat with the same calm reassurance, 
and whether at oar or sail he was the same 
steady master of his calling. 

One night when the waves were rolling high 
on the stream we sat in the office-room of the 
old hotel which stood on the bank of the river. 
A cheerful log-fire crackled in the fire-place. 
Martin sat in the corner puffing at a cob-pipe, 
his long legs stretched before the fire. I was a 
mere lad and sat drinking in the tales of the old 
river days, — of steamboat races and wrecks, — 
and I never grew weary of Martin's descrip- 
tion of the great disaster to the United States 



58 



Sprigs o' Mini 



and America, which occurred but a few miles 
up the river, and Martin had many rehcs of that 
awful night. Suddenly we were startled by the 
loud cry of ''hello" from outside, and when the 
door was opened, a young man and woman 
came into the office. They had hurriedly got- 
ten out of a buggy and both seemed very much 
agitated, and the young man lost no time in 
informing us that they were eloping from a 
neighboring county and were being hotly pur- 
sued by an angry father and brother. My gaze 
was fixed on the young woman, for never 
before had I seen such a beautiful face and such 
lustrous dark eyes ; and lit up with the flame of 
love, they seemed to shed a glow upon the dingy 
walls of the old room. 

''Where can I find the ferryman ?" asked the 
young man. 

"I am the ferryman," said Martin ; "but you 
can't cross the river to-night, the wind is too 
high." 

"But we must cross !" said the young fellow, 
as a wild glance shot from his eye. "I'll give 
you ten dollars to set us over." 

"I'm feer'd to resk it," began Martin; but 
just at this point the beautiful young woman 
went up to him, and with a smile which seemed 
to melt into the very soul, softly said, 



59 



sprigs o' Mint 



"I am not afraid. Won't you take us ?" 

Martin hesitated for a moment and then 
turned and asked, "Who'll go with me?" 

"Let me go, Martin," said I, never thinking 
of danger if Martin was to go. 

"Can you hold the rudder ?" he asked as he 
turned and looked at me. 

"I'll hold it, Martin." 

Down to the shore we went, the sweet woman 
calm and undisturbed, the man at her side shiv- 
ering and uneasy. The wind was blowing a 
gale and the waves were beating angrily upon 
the shore. After several efforts, Martin 
launched the boat. The spray and water came, 
drenching the young woman, but she quietly 
took her seat. 

"Hold her dead on Ogman's hill !" yelled 
Martin to me. 

The wind bellowed into the stout sail and we 
shot into the foam. Martin was near me and I 
felt no fear. 

"Keep her quartered, with stern to the wind, 
and don't give her a chance to sheer!" 

"Is there much danger?" asked the bride- 
groom as his teeth chattered. 

Martin did not answer him, but yelled to me, 

"Hold her steady and fast." 

"I'm tryin' to," said the groom, clutching his 
fair companion closer. 

60 



Sprigs o' Mint 



"I wasn't talkin' to you," said Martin. 

We were nearing the Indiana shore. Martin 
shouted to me, 

"Turn her down a few points, then Hft her 
out on the shore," and beautifully did we mount 
high on the pebbled beach. Martin turned to 
me, saying, "We'll not go back to-night." 

We went to the hotel. The proprietor found 
the county clerk and a minister, and there in 
the little parlor we saw our passengers take the 
marriage vows, and the bride kissed me, and I 
began to hate the groom for stealing such an 
angel. 

"Wasn't he scared comin' over?" I said to 
Martin as we went to bed. 

"Yes, but wimmen alius has the best grit 
when it comes to a showdown, an' mebbe if she 
had been ketched by her dad she'd a had to die 
an ole maid," said Martin as he put out the 
light. 

I slept with my arm about Martin's neck and 
dreamed of the wild surging billows and the 
angry wind, but through it all there came the 
sweet vision of those soft, beautiful eyes and 
that heavenly kiss upon my cheek. 

The next morning" when we started to the 
river, Martin slipped a five-dollar gold piece 
into my hand. "He give me two of them, an' 



6i 



sprigs o' Mint 



one of them belongs to you," said Martin; and 
in my joy I forgave the groom for all of his 
fright. 

Dear old Martin. I never thought that dis- 
ease would attack that powerful constitution, 
but last year when I went back to the old scenes 
they showed me his grave in the little cemetery 
on the hill, overlooking the stream which he 
loved so well. Some kind hand had planted a 
V\^illow branch on his mound, and it was grow- 
ing and spreading to shade the resting-place of 
his dear and noble heart. 



62 



sprigs o' Mint 



A SONG OF CARROLL. 

There's a county dear 

That is full of cheer 

As the sunlight of the morn, 

Where the latch string's long — ■' 

Oh, I'll sing a song 

Of the place where I was born, 

Up in dear old Carroll. 

Then take me back to the rock-ribbed hills, 

With the valleys green and fair, 

Where the blue of skies 

Makes a paradise — 

Oh, my heart still longs for there, 

Up in dear old Carroll. 

I must see the stream 
'Neath the sun's gold gleam 
And the waters gently flowing ; 
I must hear the birds 
With their chattering words 
In the morning's early glowing. 
Up in dear old Carroll. 

'Tis a pleasing thing 
In the balmy sprine, 
When the pulse of nature thrills, 

62 



sprigs o' Mint 



To see some boy with his plow and mule 

On the crest of the bloom-tipped hills ; 

And the world below 

With its weal and woe 

Is a phase of itself apart, 

And he sings a song 

As he lags along, 

'Tis a song of nature's heart. 

When the day is done 

And the crimson sun 

Has sunk into the w^est, 

When the sweet full moon 

Comes a-rising soon 

To smile on the river's breast; 

When the whippoorwill 

On the distant hills 

Sings day song-birds to sleep. 

And the stars swing high 

In the silvered sky 

And their silent vigils keep, 

Up in dear old Carroll. 

Then take me back to the rock-ribbed hills. 

With the valleys g-reen and fair. 

Where the blue of skies 

Makes a paradise — 

Oh, my heart still longs for there. 

Up in dear old Carroll. 

64 



ss o 



SONG OF WHIPPOORWILL. 

That whippoorwill I hear singing his monot- 
onous serenade over on the Indiana hills is a 
strange sort of bird. Did you ever run across 
one of them ? I have come upon them occa- 
sionally, perched in some very dark and 
secluded spot. They are a little larger than a 
rain-crow, with a speckled breast, and from the 
way they hang around in daytime and sneak 
out at night, to ''sing the stars asleep behind the 
break of dawn," you would mark them as out- 
casts among all other birds. The darkies used 
to tell me that if you heard one singing in your 
yard it was a sign of death, and that if you 
killed one of them its mate would come back to 
''hant" you. But all of this talk doesn't seem to 
bother old Whippo — he clothes himself with his 
own grand, gloomy and peculiar glory and 
pours forth his soul on nights when skies are set 
for lutes and lovers — and his name for ages has 
been interwoven mid love-songs and romance, 
and he has at least done his part in mellowing 
and keeping alive the breath of tenderer senti- 
ments and possibly the tenderest memories of 
other years, to those whose aged hearts live 
sweetly in the dear sunshine of younger mem- 
ories. 

65 



sprigs o' Mint 



What beauties and what glories of the night 
he tells us of — adown the stream some steamer 
comes wending her way from Southern waters 
and pushing her nose into the sleepy silence of 
the sombre hills — the sky is merry with the glis- 
tening stars, and as I turn again toward the 
heavenly dome, the beautiful text of Job comes 
to me, ''Canst thou bind the secret influences of 
the Pleiades or loose the bands of Orion?" 

So sing on, bird of the heaven-kissed night — 
sing on as the moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
swings on in radiant splendor — sing on and let 
your song float above the graves of the dear 
departed ones, whose spirits soar beyond the 
dreaming stars — sing on until the purple flush 
of dawn bursts o'er the green of the summer 
hills, and all this beauteous valley wakes the 
golden gladness under the opening eyelids of 
the morn. 



66 



Sprigs o' Mint 



A KENTUCKY "LAST LEAR'^ 

I met him one morn 
When he had a fine "horn" 

As long as your long left arm, 
And his cheek was aglow 
Like a rose in the snow, 

And his breath, it was fragrant and warm ; 
And he juggled his cane 
Like a spry country swain, 

And his manner was sweet in its charm. 

And I met him once more 
When the sun cantered o'er 

The gloom of the gray morning sky ; 
Ah, his back it was crook'd. 
And he said as he looked, 

"Gad, my boy, I am ready to die. 
For the future seems short 
When you yearn for a snort" — 

Then a tear-drop bespangled his eye. 

And I met him again 
With his drum-major cane. 

And I knew by his juicy, sly winks 
That the flush of the dawn 
Had bestowed his joy on 

67 



Sprigs o' Mint 



In the shape of a couple of drinks ; 
And he said as he look'd, 
"Gad, my boy, I'm book'd, 

For a round hundred years, by Jinks !" 



68 



Sprigs o' Mint 



THE UPS AND DOWNS OF G. WASH- 
INGTON BROWN. 

That name would, seemingly, carry with it a 
huge store of dignity, embodiment of merit and 
achievement, and while I am not sure, yet I 
believe, in a measure, that it played some part 
in the rapid rise of the hero who bore it. 

Grant Washington Brown sprang into bud- 
ding manhood with but a vague knowledge of 
parental ties. There had always been a deep 
and outspoken prejudice for him in the hearts 
of the colored denizens of the river village, 
because he was *'so smart and so black," and 
the mystery of his 'loud" clothes and gaudy 
jewelry hung exasperatingly over the ill-attired 
coons who shoveled coal and earned their bread 
by hard toil. 

I frequently found myself wondering how 
this ebony genius managed to revel in luxurious 
ease, but a passing incident gave me the secret 
of his system. I was going home late one night 
from the office, and just as I turned the corner, 
I saw Grant standing under the arc-light, and 
he quickly stooped and picked up some glitter- 
ing object. He seemed to be enveloped in an 
atmosphere of uneasy innocence, and as I came 

69 



Sprigs o' Mint 



up he held up what appeared to me as a brilliant 
diamond shirt-stud. 

''Whut's dis hyar thing I jes' foun' ?" he 
asked me. The spirit of avarice was mounting 
within me, and I thought it could be no harm 
to mislead an ignorant nigger. My eyes 
gleamed woliishly on the stone- — a diamond 
shirt-stud! I had dreamed of owning one all 
of these years — the electric rays fell upon it, 
and it flashed in splendor. 

"Hit woan' do fer me to be foun' wid dis 
hyar thing on me/' said Grant. 

"What will you take for it?" I eagerly asked. 

"Gimme six dollars fo' it." 

I could rake out but $5.35, but I passed it 
over to Grant and hastened home, where I hid 
the gem under my pillow and dreamed of a 
stiff-bosomed shirt, and my sun-burst diamond 
radiating from its center. I drew it forth the 
next morning, and with a sigh I laid it down — 
it was the cheapest ten-cent piece of glass and 
tin-foil that I had ever seen, and it dawned 
upon me then why G. Wash. Brown had been 
so particular in holding it in one certain posi- 
tion under the arc-light. I came upon him in a 
few days, and tried to show my contempt by a 
piercing glance, but his countenance lit up and 
as his eyes beamed in a self-satisfied roll he 
lifted his hat and said, "Good-mawnin', sah !" 

70 



Sprigs o' Mint 



I kept the secret locked in my bosom — he 
knew I was ashamed to tell it. I heard of the 
machinations of G. Wash. Brown frequently 
after this episode. He bought a whole stock of 
cheap rings and pins with his ill-gotten gains 
from me, and he proceeded to visit the neigh- 
boring towns, where he caught them coming 
and going, now and then playing his old game 
of finding lost jewelry on the street. 

There wasn't a sucker in the county who 
hadn't been fitted out with gew-gaws of brass, 
and the country swain, making his first venture 
in the game of love, sallied forth resplendent in 
Grant's flashing gems. 

Grant was safe from the spleen of his victims, 
and no matter if some fair maid returned the 
tarnished and blackened remains of some neck- 
lace or ring to her mortified lover, it would have 
been more humiliating for the report to have 
crept out that it had been purchased from 
Grant. 

That worthy Afro-American was steadily 
rising and blooming out into gaudy fashions 
and higher ambitions all the while, but as ambi- 
tion destroyed great men in ages gone by, so it 
swept Grant into obscurity and ruin. He came 
back from the city, on one occasion, with three 
or four brass watches, and unfortunately worked 
one of them off on old Judge Snodgrass, when 

21 



Sprigs o' Mint 



the Judge was in his cups, and when the Judge 
got sober he brooded over the matter and swore 
eternal vengeance on that coon. You could 
smell the brass on the watch and the Judge said 
that it ''run back'ards." 

A cheap jewelry store was broken into one 
night, and nearly everything was cleaned up. 
''S'arch Wash. Brown, — s'arch that nigger/' 
said Judge Snodgrass. Wash, was searched. 
They did not find any of the goods on his per- 
son, but in his room they found nearly a peck of 
watches and rings in his bed-tick — they found 
cuff-buttons and breast-pins by the dozens in 
his old hair-trunk, they found "diamond" shirt- 
studs in his carpet-sack and they found cheap 
jewelry everywhere. Poor Wash., he looked on 
as they brought forth the hidden treasure, and 
all that he would say was, "I mus' er stole 'em 
walkin' in my sleep." 

Judge Snodgrass prosecuted him, and the 
Judge never rose to sublimer heights than when 
he pictured the woe and chagrin which this 
creature had brought on humanity. I wanted 
to applaud, for I had not forgotten some that 
he had brought on me, but when the Judge in- 
advertently said, ''Think of the poor, ignorant 
damn fools that he has defrauded," I thought 
that he was going too far. Grant went to 
Frankfort wearing a new pair of "bracelets," 



72 



sprigs o' Mint 



and the only objection he expressed for them 
was that "they didn't shine much." 

I was passing through the penitentiary with 
the warden one autumn day. I saw a famiHar 
face at one of the machines, — the whites of the 
big eyes were rolling on me, — I went up and 
took his hand, and how happy he seemed to see 
me. 

"Grant, what made you steal all that 
jewelry?" 

"I 'lowed to go to Bolden Green an' start a 
store," he answered. 

"Are you sorry for it all now. Grant?" 

"I'se suttn'y sorry for one thing, an' dat is 
skinnin' ole Judge Snodgrass wid dat brass 
watch — I'se been sorry fo' that many a time; 
ef I hadn't skint him, he'd never had me 
ketched." 



7Z 



sprigs o' Mint 



OLE BULL FRORG. 

Down whar de willers line de bank, 

An' de mud is slick 'roun' de ole drif -wood, 

Ole buU-frorg stay, an' he sing ''pank, pank," 
An' he 'low to he'se'f, ''Dat's sho'ly good." 

An' he sing a song, 'twuz a song er love. 
An' hebeller deep an' he beller strong — 

Ole turkle riz an' he made a shove 
Inter de crick an' he says, ''So long." 

An' de skrick-owl kinder shet one eye 

An' say, ''Mister Frorg, when you git thru 

I'll sing yer a ole-tam lullabye," 

An' de ole frorg say, "I'm damn, 'f you do. 

"I hain't no han' fer to cock my yeer 
Fer yo' flap- jack songs, er enny thing 

Dat's bustin' out, 'cep' what I hear 
Cum f'um dis log, an' what I sing." 

An' de whipperwill he spread he' tail 
An' he say, "Yo' ole curnseeted fool, 

I'd ruther hear de skrick-owl wail 

Er de hong-ke-haw uv a dad-burn mule." 



74 



Sprigs o' Mint 



But ole Mister Frorg he raise he' han' 
An' he kinder spread hit on he' nose, 

An' he say, "Hit's plain to understan' 
Youse jelkis clean down to yer toes. 

''An' I doan' sing f um de wavin' tree, 
But sings my songs f'um the murky bog. 

Hit mout seem strange, but yo' boun' ter see 
Dat a frorg song satisfies a frorg." 

An' ole Mister Frorg, he wan't so wrong, 
Fer I'se heerd folks beller like a steer. 

'T'ud make yo' sick to hear de song', 
But, honey, 'twuz to de singer's yeer. 



75 



Sprigs o' Mint 



A TOUCH OF HIGH LIFE. 

Sometimes, when business is good, the Httle 
fish here break away from the confines of the 
cafes, and tough steaks, and "take a whirl and 
learn bon-ton and see the wurl'." Arrayed in 
my best bib and tucker, I shoved my feet under 
the table, with a friend in a hotel where dwell 
the rich and those of high degree. On the table 
just across from us vv^as a bunch of flowers as 
large as a Christmas tree, and I knew that they 
were waiting, with their glad smiles, for the 
presence of the gorgeous grand. 

We had just finished the little-neck clams and 
the consomme when the party arrived. A little, 
subdued-looking old man in evening dress came 
first ; he was followed by a bulging lady of some 
fifty summers. In polite parlance, you would 
have called her stout, but she was fat, and pow- 
erful fat at that. I caught a whiff of "lily of 
the valley" perfume as she swept, with a 
queenly air, into her seat, but she struck me as 
a sort of red queen to a black sequent flush. 
With them was a young man, quiet and studi- 
ous looking, who seemed possessed of a wealth 
of brains, but considerably awed in the presence 
of the mighty coin. 

ye 



Sprigs o' Mint 



The stout party had given every attention to 
the arrangement of her costume and toilet, pos- 
sibly with the exception of a shave, as there was 
a sort of scattered fuzzy growth on her chin — 
strong muscular force and constant action oft- 
times produce these things. The superannu- 
ated looking individual, presumably her worser 
half, tucked his napkin under his chin, as if he 
were being prepared for the guillotine, and they 
went into the bill of fare. 

*'Git some of that consomme chiffonade, or 
whatever you call it, Dan," said the stout lady. 

Dan heard her, everybody heard her, and she 
wanted them to turn and see who was talking. 
Dan meekly ordered for three, but I noticed that 
when Dan ordered anything which had a 
French handle or tail to it, he merely laid his 
finger on the card and looked up at the waiter. 

"When did you hear fum Kitty, Harry?" 
asked the stout party of the young man, as a 
blue-point slipped off of her fork and went scoot- 
ing dow^n the wide expanse of rolling sward. 'T 
always knowed that you was dead in love with 
that girl, and it's a pity that she was so pore — 
her folks never did have no shift, but just loved 
books and art and all that sort of thing that 
don't git no diamonds and brown-stone fronts. 
I didn't keer fer these things when I was grow- 
in' up, and Dan here didn't monkey with them 



sprigs o' Mint 



— he was too busy at the foundry, but our gal 
got all of it in Yoo-rap, and we worked her in- 
to jest about as good a social standing as any- 
body gits nowdays, and when we was over the 
last time, Dan run across a feller who traced up 
that we had come f'm some of the old families 
over there, and said that my great-grandfather 
was a great man." 

"As Sir Roger De Coverly said at the 
Abbey," put in the youngf man, "of Dr. Busby, 
'he was a great man, he whipped my grand- 
father.' " 

"I don't know of Coverly (here waiter, bring 
me some of that imperial punch and lobster 
salad) ; you know lobster salad always makes 
me dream in my sleep that I have been laid out 
and buried." 

"Ah," said the young man, "I suppose that 
is what made Paul Richter call sleep 'the ante- 
chamber of the grave.' " 

"I don't know anything about ante-chamber, 
but I do know what a bully thing sleep is, if you 
have a good mattress and good piller. Dan, did 
you send that hundred dollars to the 'Piscopal 
minister? We want to curry favor with him — 
it will help us socially." 

Dan roused himself at this point and flicked 
a wad of cranberry sauce off of his shirt front. 
He seemed to feel th^^t it was up to him to "do 

78 



Sprigs o' Mint 



a turn," and he rubbed his hands together, and 
after a few feeble chuckles, he said : 

"Speaking of preachers, did you ever hear 
about that old preacher who 'lined out' the 
hymn ? It was long years ago, when they 'lined 
out' hymns. He got up and took the hymn 
book and said, 'My eyes are getting very dim ; 
I scarce can see to read the hymn.' The con- 
gregation sang- after the old man, 'My eyes are 
getting very dim,' etc. The old man looked up 
and said, 'I did not mean to sing the hymn; I 
merely said my eyes were dim,' and the congre- 
gation took it up, T did not mean to sing the 
hymn,' etc." 

After Dan had finished this antiquated joke 
he broke out into a spasmodic splash of laugh- 
ter, but the stout lady turned to him and said, 
"Dan, you are makin' a fool of yourself — ever- 
body's lookin' at you." 

"Let 'em look," said Dan ; "they ain't payin' 
my board." 

The better-half at this point gave him a 
Russo-Japanese look, and he quieted down and 
went back into his shell, and the stout party 
resumed absolute sway. We were down to the 
Roquefort cheese and coffee — the feast was 
over and we trailed out into the sloppy night ; 
but as I turned homeward I got to thinking of 
my old friend, Sam Bland, down in Kentucky, 

79 



sprigs o' Mint 



and a dinner which he told me about giving to 
his brother in New York. Said he : 

''You know, I always take my cattle to New 
York by the carload, and the last time I went I 
took my brother Henry along. Henry, as you 
know, has always been hard run, and when I 
asked him to go along he said, 'Sam, how will 
Molly and the children git along while I am 
gone ?' 'Take this fifty dollars,' said I, 'and tell 
them to have a good time.' Well, we got thar 
all right, and after I had sold my stock I said, 
'Henry, le's go down to the Waldorf-Astoria 
and git a good meal of vittels.' When we got 
thar the waiter handed me the bill of far'. I 
looked it over an' couldn't make heads nur tails, 
for it was French, Dutch and three or four 
languages. I handed it to Henry an' says, 
'Henry, you order,' but he says, 'Dog-skinned if 
I didn't leave my specs in my satchel.' I looked 
around me an' see a distinguished-lookin' man 
settin' at a table nigh us, an' I says to the 
waiter, 'Go over thar an' see what that man is 
goin' to eat,' an' the waiter comes back an' says, 
'That is Mr. William K. Vanderbuilt, an' he is 
goin' to eat a small piece of toast an' a poached 
G^gg.' I say, 'No wonder, a man ought to git 
rich who don't eat any more than that.' I took 
the bill of far' an' said, 'Waiter, bring me down 
to thar,' pullin' my finger down about half way 

80 



jrigs o' Mint 



the bill, and you ought to seen what that waiter 
brought in — chicken with paper pants on the 
legs, all sorts of meats an' vittels, with bokays 
an' flowers, an' two bottles of wine, an' the wine 
begin to work on Henry right away, an' as we 
et along I see Henry begin to swell up an' look 
like he had horse-reddish in his eyes, an' I says, 
^Don't the vittels suit you ?' an' he kinder sniffles 
an' says, 'Yes, but I wish I had Mollie an' the 
children here,' an' I says, 'Damit, don't spile the 
feast; Mollie an' the children air doin' all right.' 
He kinder cheers up, an' begins to stack up a 
pile of bones an' scraps around his plate, an' 
purty soon I see him begin to slop over ag'in, 
an' I says, What's grindin' you now?' an' he 
rakes out a puddle of tears an' says, 'By grab, 
Sam, if I jest had my hounds here to eat these 
scraps.' I never see a man cry so over a good 
meal, an', as I was a-goin' to say at the outset — 
you kin never tell what people will do when they 
suddenly git up in high life." 



8i 



sprigs o' Mint 



FIDDLIN' FARLEY. 

Down whar the river sweeps along, 
Down whar the south-wind sighs its song, 

An' willows bend to murm'rin' stream ; 
Down whar the rugged hills loom high 
Agin the blue of changin' sky — 

The wild-duck's joy and fisher's dream. 



Old Farley's hut stood on the bank, 
An' sorter hidin' in the shank 

Of river bend, thar Farley stayed 
An' tended to the guv'ment light. 
Blind as a bat, he lost his sight 

Back in the war, on Morgan's raid. 

An' Farley's gran'son lived with him, 
A hawk-face lad by name of Tim. 

He filled the lamps an' done his turn 
About the place, till pay-day come, 
Then went fer booze an' got so bum 

He wasn't wuth a tinker's durn. 

But Farley loved him an' he knowed 
The boy's hard luck, an' how he'd growed 

Without a mother's tender care, 
An' though he'd never seen his face, 
Yet, somehow, in his heart a place 

Retained his image fondly there. 

82 



sprigs o' Mint 



But Tim was dear in sober clays, 
An' jes' to hear that couple raise 

Their voices in some old-time song 
Up thar alone upon the hill — 
It seem'd the very stream stood still 

To ketch the tune that rolled along. 

An' Farley's fiddle, how she'd ring! 
The melody would leap an' spring 

Upon the stillness of the night, 
An' strange to me, hit always seem 
That music floatin' o'er a stream 

Awakes the stars an' heaven's delight. 

An' many a time, when nights was fine, 
I've set there in my yankee-pine. 

An' drifted 'round about the shore. 
An' listen'd to blind Farley play 
The sweetest tunes that stole away 

The care from out yer bosom's core. 

'Twas always night to Farley's eyes. 
The sunset's glow, the blue of skies 

Ne'er beamed above the river's brim 
For Farley, but he dreamed of these. 
An' in the wand'rin', lispin' breeze 

He heard the chords of nature's hymn. 



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In fishin' days, at early shine 

Of mornin' when I traced my Hne, 

I've heard old Farley's fiddle start 
To gladness with the voice of Tim. 
The birds all seem'd to jine with them 

In waftin' joy across the heart. 



I hain't much hand to tell of things 
Where sorrow or misfortune clings, 

An' well would I ferg-it that nig-ht 
When Tim got drunk an' stayed in town. 
An' through the rain that pelted clown 

Blind Farley groped to hang the light. 

The stream was runnin' full an' high 
Up to the bank, an' bellow' d by 

With angry surge an' leapin' wave, 
An' Farley missed the ladder's hold — 
A piteous cry, then dark an' cold 

The billows oped his watery grave. 

They found him in the noon-day calm. 
The south-wind's sympathetic balm 

Of fragrance crept 'neath soften'd skies 
An' linger'd like a v hisp'rin' prayer 
About his body layin' there. 

An' kissed the swollen, sightless eyes. 



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He's sleepin' up there on the hill. 
His fiddle hangs so lone an' still 

Upon the white-washed cabin wall ; 
The sweetness of its voice is gone, 
No more at rosy-tinted dawn 

'Twill blend in with the robin's call. 

But somewhar up above the skies, 
In golden fields of Paradise, 

Old Farley sings amid the blest, 
An' God of All has let his sight 
Beam open on the guv'ment light 

That gleams above the Stream of Rest. 



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BILL BOLES, OF THE STEAMBOAT 
BAND. 

Bill Boles, just a common old countiy name, 

But it set to a turn on Bill, 
And Bill never hankered for rounds of fame 

As he clum up life's rugged hill. 
He'd tried at farmin' — had tried and failed; 

Tried makin' whisky — was six months' 
jailed; 
Then fired a freight till his hands was scaled. 

Then he quit, for that was too tame. 

Bill Boles was a failure, as failures go, 

^'But," he said, as he slinked his eye, 
"I might er be gittin' thar kinder slow. 

But I'll git thar yet bye an' bye." 
But there was one thing Bill Boles could do, 

xA.s no one else, I will say to you — 
Could play a fiddle, a bass one ; few 

Could swing such a hefty bass bow. 

He'd play in a band, or he'd play alone, 

And he'd git up at night to play. 
And he'd draw them strings to a sigh or groan 

In a curious sort of a way. 



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When he got meller, say 'bout half shot, 
His jints got loose, an' his chist got hot. 

There warn't any man — I'll swear thar's not — 
Who could get sech a bully tone. 

His legs they were bowed, jes' as if they's made 

Fer that fiddle to set between. 
His hands they was big as a post-hole spade. 

An' I reckon about as clean. 
But when he strung fer a rip an' run, 

His face a-smile like the risin' sun. 
He looked right well — the son of a gun, — 

At least, thar air worse I have seen. 

But Bill struck a job in the summer months 

Along with a steamboatin' band. 
An' his life was happy, at least fer once. 

That he'd collared a job off land. 
Bill loved the change, and the river air — 

Took like a duck to the steamboat fare. 
His heart was free from trouble and care 

When he stood with his bow in hand. 

There was the lead fiddle, an' Bill's with bass, 

A guitar and a mandolin — 
See 'em all playin', as if in a race. 

Was somethin' you orter have seen. 

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Sprigs o' Mint 



The music they made was different kinds, 
Hadn't no notes, — kinder played by signs, 

Bill made 'em hustle along the lines. 
He set 'em a terrible pace. 

He didn't like music that's slow and sad. 

An' didn't bank much on^ a waltz. 
It queered him somehow, an' when he got mad, 

He's shore to make notes that was false. 
His joy was in playin' of rag-time works, 

His hot bass two-steps tickled the clerks ; 
He got in so many coon-jine jerks 

That his finish was often bad. 

One day they was playin' a sassy rag, 

An' Bill reachin' high fer his notes. 
The boys they say now he had on. a jag 

An' forgot about water an' boats. 
Humped up his back as he made a high run — 

Never was knowed how the thing was 
done,-— 
He went overboard ; he flopped an' spun, 

An' must a struck slap on a snag. 

He never come up, but his fiddle did, 

An' floated out over the wave. 
As lookin' fer Bill whar the ripples hid 

Him down in his watery grave. 



sprigs o' Mint 



They never could figger jest how he sunk, 
In talkin' it o'er, but many thunk 

If he'd been Hghter an' not so drunk 
He'd swum out to shore on his fid. 

The roustabouts say when they pass that place 

They can hear fust a sigh an' groan. 
They claim it is Bill with his old pine bass. 

An' the water swings back its tone. 
They often tell of a ghost that stands 

An' jerks a bow with its spooky hands — 
Of "hants" that dance from the boggy lands 

As Bill sets the terrible pace. 



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THE DROUTH AND THE RAIN. 

I've heard of the plagues of Egypt 
Which beset old King Pharaoh. 
They might a been wuss 
Than this here dust — 
I reckon, but I don't know. 

The rain-crow has quit his callin', 
For all of the signs went wrong, 
And hardly a bird is ever heard 
A chirpin' a pleasant song. 

The locust has hung up his fiddle, 

And he screeches that he'll be cussed 

If he tries to sing 

Or do anything 

In all of this dad-blamed dust. 

The cistern's as dry as a sermon, 

The pond is as dry as the wit 

Of a country bunk 

Who is full of punk; 

Your mouth is too dry to spit ; 

You jump in the river at morning, 

And waller in there till noon, 

Then the dust soaks in 

Through your leather skin. 

And you feel like a sore baboon. 



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I've heard of the plagues of Egypt 

Which beset old Kingf Pharaoh. 

They might a been wuss 

Than this here dust — 

I reckon, but I don't know. 

3|C 5jC 5|x ^C ^? ^C *jC ^C 

Gray clouds in the west at dawning, 

And a sort of a misty haze, 

And your inner soul thrills 

As the tips of the hills 

Are veiled in this moistened-touched maze, 

And the clouds all a-racin' 

And pacin' 

And darkenin' under your gaze. 

There's a patter down there in the river 

As each rain-drop kisses the stream. 

And it soothes your heart 

And the memory part 

Of an olden, golden dream. 

And the river awakens to greet them. 

And the fields with a freshness teem. 

Oh, delicious and precious 

The drops that refresh us — 

The trees are all bending beneath the rain, 



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Sprigs o' Mint 



The clouds all a-weeping 

The sweet of their keeping, 

The thunders are rolling a heavenly strain, 

And the days will be many 

Before we have any 

Of the dad-blamed dust again. 



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PANT POWDEN OF POWDER CREEK. 

In the Cumberland Mountains, far above 
where Cumberland Gap opens as a passageway 
toward the South, is a wild, rough country 
where to-day can be found the deer, the bear 
and the mountain lion. Heavy undergrowth 
of foliage and towering forest trees, which 
seem tO' pierce the blue skies, cover the moun- 
tain sides. The mountain acacia, the sweet rho- 
dodendron and wild ferns raise their smiling 
heads here through the warm months, and in 
the late months of autumn it is the ideal place 
for those who enjoy hunting the big game 
which frequents this section. I have spent 
many happy days hunting up and down Pow- 
der Creek with that rare genius of the moun- 
tains known as Pant Powden, and the last time 
I saw him he was making arrangements to quit 
hunting and ''go into business," as he put it. I 
never could learn from him what kind of bus- 
iness he was contemplating; whether ''moon- 
shine" or rafting down the river, but no mat- 
ter what he is doing to-day, I know that he is 
the same lanky, happy-hearted, red-headed 
humorist of the wilds. 



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Sprigs o' Mint 



Pant Powden, eighteen years of age, as ugly 
as a screech-owl, but his laugh was like a burst 
of music, and his heart was filled with kindness 
and good cheer. I came upon him one morn- 
ing as he sat upon a log on the mountain side ; 
beside him lay the body of a beautiful golden 
eagle. 

''Hello, Pant, where did you get that eagle?" 

"Got him up thar on Bald Knob. Pap been 
seein' him hup thar nigh onto sev'ul times, an' 
made me an offer to hutch him down, an' yis- 
tiddy I lays hine th' big rocks more nigh than 
three hour, an' 'bout th' time I thinks uv leavin', 
I hear th' floppin' uv big wings, an' my heart 
Stan's in my throat, an' he gives one bif-flop an' 
socks his claws inter th' big oak an' settles an' 
takes a quiet look down over the valley. I gits 
his breas' with the sun along th' gun-sight an' 
pulls, an' 'twuz th' purties' fall I ever see. 

''You say you'll buy him f'um me if I takes 
him up to Benson Station? Hit's a go, ef hit 
is a long trip, but I kin stop at Aunt P' silly 
Orton's on my way back an' git my grub. 
Aunt P'silly always has had a kinder leanin' to 
me since I went after Doc Higgs fer her th' 
time she played dead. Never heerd about hit? 
I wuz down thar, stayin' a few days in th' 
neighborhood wen ole Aunt P'silly takes a 
notion that she wants th' ole man to raise 

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money fer her to take a trip clown to th' city, 
an' th' ole man 'lows that th' money wa'n't rais- 
able, an' Aunt P'silly tuck on an' had some kind 
uv sinkin' spells an' 'lowed that she wuz goin' 
ter die ; an' she kep' on havin' sinkin' spells an' 
sech, tell bye an' bye she lays on th' bed an' 
wauls up her eyes an' breathes her last, to all 
'pearances, an' Uncle Buck gits skeered an' digs 
across th' mount' in fer some uv th' neighbor 
wimmen, an' yells fer me to go git Doc Higgs. 
I got him, an' when we gits back, thar wuz th' 
ole wimmen tryin' to cumfert Uncle Buck an' 
sayin', ^B'ar yer burden as best ye kin, Buck;' 
an' Uncle Buck he groan an' says, 'Th' Lord 
has give an' th' Lord has tuck away,' an' then 
he busts out an' says, 'That durn corn-doctor 
who tole us 'bout th' city done hit all ;' an' th' 
ole wimmen says, 'B'ar up, Buck, fer she is now 
in glory.' 

"Doc Higgs goes up to Aunt P'silly, who 
wuz layin' with folded ban's, an' feels her pults, 
an' says, 'Yes, she is dead, pore soul ;' an' they 
all bust out cryin', afresh, an' th' hounds begin 
ter howl, an' Doc comes up to ther bed an' says, 
'Bein' she is dead, Fll pour a little uv this nitric 
acid in her yeer to make shore.' An' as he tuck 
the stopper outen th' little bottle. Aunt P'silly 
opens one eye an' says, 'Doc Higgs, ef you 



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pour that in my yeer, you'll never live long 
'nough to- straddle that hoss of yourn agen.' 

''Ev'rybody gits holt uv th' story an' laughs 
'bout hit, an' when Dink Peelman asks Uncle 
Buck 'bout hit, Uncle Buck said that Doc Higgs 
called it a case uv suspended damnation, or 
suthin' uv that sort. Dink would like to have 
made a joke uv th' bus'ness, but they happened 
to have Dink fouled along anuther line, an' he 
had to go easy, fer you see Dink an' Bob Hous- 
ton both goes over to see Jinny Rilen, — fust 
one then tur, — an' both lands tliar together one 
Sunday night, an' all th' fam'ly sets in th' same 
room, an' th' want much courtin'-talk done. 
'Twuz rainin' an' stormin' outside, an' Bob an' 
Dink stays all night an' sleeps in th' loft. Th' 
next mornin' Bob an' Jinny wa'n't thar^ — they 
had 'loped in th' night an' had gone to Westrick 
an' got hitched. 

"Wuz Dink sick? He jes' laid 'round an' 
chawed sassafras bark an' cussed when you 
drapped him a word. Bob an' Jinny come back 
an' lived with th' ole folks. In about two weeks 
a buzz-saw split down at th' mill an' made a 
bee-line fer ole man Rilen. He didn't have 
time to dodge, an' they wuz all day bringin' in 
his remains. Mrs. Rilen wuz a wiclder, but hit 
wa'n't many months before Dink begin ter nose 
aroun' up thar, an' before folks could hardly git 



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steady on th' business, they got married — him 
twenty-six, an' her fifty-eight. An' when they 
comes home, Bob an' Jinny says, 'What der this 
mean ?' An' Dink kinder grins an' says, 'Hit 
means that you an' Jinny kin sHde out jes' as 
quick as you did before.' An' Bob, seein' as th' 
law wuz agin him, tuck Jinny an' sHd. Some 
few days after this, pap meets Dink, an' says, 
'Dink, I wuz surp'ise at you falHn' in love with 
the widder Rilen ;' an' Dink says, 'I wa'n't in 
love with th' widder Rilen, but I did natchelly 
despise that Bob Houston.' " 

"Pant, they tell me that you have a sort of 
love case down there at Simpson's," 

"Yes, sir, I have; an' she says that she got 
hit too, an' I don't know uv nothin' that would 
have kep' us frum gittin' hitched, ef she hadn't 
been porely. I don't know as how I cum to git 
that feelin' fer Dory, but th' day we climbed to 
th' top uv Bald Knob over thar, when she wuz 
well — you've been on Bald Knob, an' know 
how fur you kin see, away over to Marlin 
Ridge, an' down to whar th' railroad winds in 
an' out through th' gap. Looked like I wuz the 
tiredest when we got hup, an' how she laffed at 
me when I puffed so, an' she stood side me as 
she pinted out all th' places in the valley, an' 
she 'tended like she had never seen 'em before. 
I 'members hit wuz a mi'ty purty day hup thar, 

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an' when we comes down she had all sorts uv 
mountain flowers in her arms, an' I had all 
sorts uv funny notions in my head, an' when 
we comes to th' foot uv th' mountain, I says, 

" 'Dory, I hain't never goin' to stay hyar in 
these mount' ins no longer.' 

" 'Why hain't you ?' says she. 

" 'Because nobody keers fer me hyar,' says I. 

" 'Nobody keers fer people as don't keer fer 
them,' says she as she hinig her head. 

"We had cum down to th' creek, an' I 
stopped an' says, 

" 'Dory, is th' anybody else you would dim' 
that mountain with?' 

" 'Nobody else,' says she. 

" 'Would you dim' all th' rough mountains 
uv this life with me?' says I. 

" 'Ev'ry one uv them,' says she." 



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DE LITTLE NIGGERETTE. 

Yes, he wuz a little nigger, 
An' he wuzzen enny bigger 
Den de shadder fum a figger 

Uv a goose upon de wall ; 
An' he kep' his eyes a-turnin' 
To de cabin — he wuz learnin' 
Sumpin' 'bout terbacker burnin', 

Dat wuz all. 

Riz de smoke a little hiah, 
Drap de ashes fum de fiah, 
But he nevah seem to tiah 

Ez he smoke de cigarette ; 
How hit lay agin his finger. 
Den up to his mouf he bring her, 
And de smoke hit float an' linger 

Roun' de little niggerette. 

All de burds 'round wuz singin', 
An' de honey-bee wuz wingin', 
'Roun' de mornin'-glories clingin' 

To de vines upon de wall ; 
An' he blow de smoke a twirlin'. 
An' he watch it floatin', curlin', 
An' he' haid wuz kinder whirlin', 

Dat wuz all. 



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Yar ! ole granny sot a-nappin' 

In de house, her haid wuz drappin' 

On her bres', den sumpin' happen' — 

'Whu's dat nasty cigarette?" 
She hed smell de smoke a-siftin' 
In de room an' seed it driftin', 
Den you see her feet a-shiftin' 

To de little niggerette. 

Drap de ashes f'um de fiah, 
Riz de smoke a little hiah, 
Den he turn an' dar he spy her, 

Den he let he' smokins fall. 
He wuz sick when he cum nigh her, 
Riz de smoke a little hiah, 
Ez she set his pants afiah, 

Dat wuz all. 



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THE MISTAKES OF A COUNTRY 
CANDIDATE. 

I am not a kicker, and have learned to take 
matters of life as they come and go with a 
peaceful resignation to fate, but there are some 
things that a man feels could have been a 
little better shaped by the hand of destiny. 
Because a man has run for office three times, 
and has been defeated each time, is not an indi- 
cation that he is absolutely unfit for office, or 
that he has an everlasting aversion for work. 
The latter consideration may cut some ice, for 
I have observed that some men who have held 
office get powerful short on energy when they 
get separated from office. I made three races 
and three failures — swore at the outcome of 
each race that I would never run again, but the 
fever attacked me until I had to go to^ selling 
wheat-fans for a living, and I quit, but I am 
onto the game. 

I had a good farm ; stood well in the church, 
for I always came down with my dues and was 
satisfied with all of the sprouts which they sent 
us from the seminary hot-house to grace the 
rostrum on the Sabbath days. I had faith in 



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the honesty and sincerity of my fellow-man 
until I got into politics, and then I lost faith in 
all of them, including- myself. I tried the game 
on the square for awhile, and then I joined the 
hosts of the irreclaimable shysters. I don't 
know how it swept into me to make the first race 
for county assessor. I had made a good, strong 
pull for a neighbor in a race and began to 
develop symptoms of ''influence." The briars 
began to grow in the fence corners and I was 
getting ripe for the slaughter. I found myself 
unnecessarily wandering out of my way to shake 
hands with acquaintances, and, in many cases, 
I grasped the paws of men and poured soft 
words into their ears when I knew that they 
hadn't enough character to carry a torch in 
hades, but they evened up for my hypocrisy. I 
still have the same opinion of them, possibly 
they still retain one of me. I made the race for 
assessor — if you'd cut off the last five letters of 
the word you would have me sized up when I 
came out. 

I was defeated by a bow-legged bulldog sort 
of a fellow, who actually cried' himself into the 
of^ce. When old Brad Hickman was buried, 
both of us were as close to the grave as we 
could possibly get to attract attention. Bow- 
legs heaved and sobbed and leaned over as close 
to the widow and children as he could get, and 

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when the clods began to fall, he broke down 
and fairly leaked tears into the grave. He was 
about the only one who wept for old Hickman, 
as about all the property he left represented 
what he had skinned and cheated his neighbors 
out of. It looked like every district in the 
county had a funeral during that race, and 
Bow-legs was always there v/ith the goods, and 
if he happened to have four or five drinks in 
him, he'd slobber and moan until it was dis- 
gusting, but it won out, and the morning after 
election I realized my first mistake. 

I woke up a sadder but not a wiser man. Ma 
had managed to take pretty good care of the 
farm and I made the first race on very little 
money, and the grafters had not troubled me 
much. I was out of politics, but politics v/asn't 
out of me, and before the next election came 
around I had been ''prevailed on by friends" to 
make the race for county clerk. 

There were three cripples in the race against 
me, and the boys said that I could only beat 
them by putting up the coin, which I did, and 
when the grafters heard that I had gotten a 
mortgage on the farm they began to flop their 
wings above me, and I forked over until I 
could almost tell the brand of whisky I was pay- 
ing for by the war-whoops of the hypocrite who 

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was carrying it. I had fellows sit down to my 
table who had never seen a napkin and who 
took out a chew of tobacco from their mouths 
and laid it beside their plates until they had 
finished eating. I've seen the color come into 
my wife's face when some henchman would 
choke on a fish-bone and smash up all the 
queensware in his struggles. I've had my girls 
sing and play on the piano for skunks who 
hadn't washed their feet in three months,, and 
I've had them sleep in my beds when I knew 
that they never even took off their boots, and 
after all of this sacrifice they threw the hooks 
into me on the day of the election. I never saw 
as many cripples in a race^ — they were after all 
the offices and the three against me would have 
made star professionals on a New York street 
corner. They started out in fairly good shape, 
but before the election was over they had to be 
carried around, and when they put them up on 
the stump for inspection, Lazarus at the rich 
man's gate was a lily in comparison. 

Everybody seemed to have lost sight of me 
through their interest in the museum. I 
couldn't even get a sprained ankle. I got a load 
of birdshot once in a watermelon patch when a 
boy — the people hadn't forgotten this, but I had 
forgotten how to limp. I longed for the lep- 
rosy or something to break out on me, but I 



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continued wretchedly strong and healthy until 
the returns came in. I had a set speech, in which 
I told of four generations of my family who 
had lived in the county and had never scratched 
the Democratic ticket. I could get off my talk 
in the kitchen at home to the queen's taste, and 
raise enough courage to work in a gesture now 
and then, but when I got up before the crowd 
and some fellow I knew to be my enemy 
sneered into my face, my arms would hang 
limp and my jaws would get paralysis, but all 
those cripples would have to do was to be drag- 
ged up on the stand and just be looked at. 

It was an ambulance race, and I was in the 
wheelbarrow. The fellow who was elected 
threw away his crutches two weeks after he 
was elected and went back to eating up long 
green tobacco. The other fellows had tO' go 
to work, but in the end I discovered that I was 
the worst cripple in the bunch. 



The farm had a big mortgage on it now, and 
the thought of dragging over the fields behind 
a mule made me sick at heart. My friends said 
I made a mistake in the last race by not "get- 
ting in the ring." The "ring" consisted of a 
gang who had gotten political supremacy by 
bulldozing and buncombe, by buying and sell- 
ing as occasion bid. The head man — he of the 

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great pull and mighty power^ — was a squatty, 
keg-legged, putty-faced terrier, who had done 
some highly commendable dirty work for one of 
the little big men of the State. I don't know, but 
a little, squatty man is a terror to me now — 
they seem to work low to the ground and don't 
have to be put to the strain of looking you in 
the eye when they are plotting your very life 
away. 

I laid up close to this bloated fish, the politi- 
cal boss. I laughed at his moth-eaten jokes, I 
played him strong and even told my boys that 
he was a scholar when they asked me if he had 
used proper language when he said "I taken" 
and ''I seen." 

Men of high culture, with ambitions for Con- 
gress, had him at their tables, and, no matter if 
he tucked his napkin under his chin and shov- 
eled in his food with his knife, they needed 
him; it was all right to sneer at the ill-bred 
manners of others who couldn't be used, but the 
grimy habits of the boss were mere little irreg- 
ularities. He had licked the hand of every- 
body above him, and he demanded that every- 
body beneath him should bow the knee — I 
strained the muscles in mine. 

What mattered it if he couldn't read or spell 
to any degree — he had the pull. I remember in 
one of his campaigns that he was called on at a 

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country prayer meeting to read a chapter — the 
whisky inside of him kept up his nerve — ^he 
floundered along until he came to the name 
Judas Iscariot in the twenty-sixth chapter of 
Matthew ; he hesitated a moment and then com- 
placently read it "J^"idas Apricot," 

I started into the race for representative in 
the State legislature. I had the support of the 
boss ; at least, I thought I had it. I gave him the 
last money I could raise, and he calmly told me 
that I could sell out in the senatorial race 
which would come up during my term, and 
raise the mortgage on my farm. ''Play 'em 
right and left," he said. ''When you run up on 
a man who favors Senator Gas-pot, talk noth- 
ing but Gas-pot, and when you get in a gang 
where the wind is strong for Judge Stealum 
Shadow, talk Shadow." I talked with the 
political weather-cock — I was for anybody and 
everybody, and when they caught me on the 
stump and demanded my position on the sena- 
torial race, I said : "Gentlemen, I am noncom- 
mittal in that race." I wanted to come out flat- 
footed and at least make some sort of honest 
statement, but the boss wouldn't have it that 
way. 

I made a speech one afternoon at Hedge- 
Hog; we had a barbecue and nine kegs of beer ; 
my opponent was a sneak who kept a bottle hid 

107 



sprigs o' Mint 



in his stable, but played sober to the public. I 
mixed considerably with the boys and uninten- 
tionally got about a half gallon too much of 
beer, and when I got up on the stand I nearly 
lost track of myself and said, "Gentlemen, I 
am a candidate for the high office to represent 
you in the national halls of Congress." I saw 
my mistake and corrected it as quickly as pos- 
sible, but when my opponent got up he said, 
"My friend has made so many races that he is 
not certain what he is running for." The shot 
went home, and it was a pity that I didn't go 
home. The boss told me two days before 
the election that I would have to raise two hun- 
dred and fifty dollars, as the opposition was 
getting money in from some source. I couldn't 
raise the price of a pippin. I hung around 
rather desolate, for there was something doing, 
and a combination was being made. I saw the 
boss talking to my opponent one morning and 
my heart sank, and I began to think, but I 
thought too late. I lost out by three hundred, 
and when I met the boss the next day he fanned 
his liquor breath into my face and said, "You 
orto have played honest — nobody knowed 
where you stood!" 

The wheat-fan business doesn't pay much, 
but it pays more than politics. 

Will I ever run again? Never! 

io8 



sprigs o' Mint 



P. S. — There is some talk among- my friends 
of bringing me out for county judge. I posi- 
tively will not run — at least, unless there is 
every indication for success. 



109 



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I'M YEARNIN' PER THE RIVER. 

You kin talk about the blue-grass 

An' the deep of woodland shade, 
Where the soil is rich and loamy 

From the upland to the glade; 
Where the meadows roll in splendor 

'Neath the softened summer skies; 
Where the thoroughbred is prancin' 

'Mid this happy paradise. 

But I'm longin' fer the river 

An' the green of rugged hills, 
An' I'm yearnin' fer the old haunts, 

An' my spirit wakes an' thrills 
When I picture in my fancy 

That long, deep, majestic roll 
Of the stream that seems is windin' 

Thro' my very heart an' soul. 

Hain't much fishin' in the blue-grass. 

For old Elkhorn's had her day; 
All the famous holes are empty 

Since they've ketched the fish fer pay ; 
But they're runnin' in the river. 

An' they never taste so good 
Till you git 'em in a skillet 

On a fire of river wood. 



no 



Sprigs o' Mint 



Lor' ! the nights of moon an' starhght, 

When the pipe-voice whippoorwill 
Sings a serenade an' love-song 

To' his mate upon the hill, 
An' the fox-hound's yelp is ringin' 

Thro' the valley loud and clear, 
An' thar ain't no sweeter music 

Ever fell on mortal yeer. 

Ain't no mornin' half so rosy 

As the ones down on the stream, 
An' they swing upon your spirit 

Like some vision of a dream; 
An' to roam around the river 

In the sunrise russet glow 
Thrills you, fills you with a gladness 

That a king would like to know. 

An' the sunsets in their glory — 

Silvered streaks an' bars of gold, 
Slantin' o'er the calm of water — 

Git an everlastin' hold 
On the heart-strings of your bosom, 

An' you lose the touch of care — 
Oh, I'm yearnin' fer the river. 

An' I'm goin' to dig fer there. 



Ill 



sprigs o' Mint 



THE MAN WHO MARKED THE LOGS. 

The news of the "tide" had been passed 
down from the head- waters of the Kentucky 
River, and all along this beautiful little stream 
there was an awakening of interest and excite- 
ment. The log-men were getting the rafts into 
sections of required length to pass through the 
locks and making ready to begin the journey 
down toward the Ohio, and when the "tide" 
arrived they would swing out upon its bosom 
and float through the sunny days and moon-lit 
nights, hunting and fishing as they floated, and 
when the logs were delivered at the mills down 
the river, they would cheerfully shoulder their 
packs and begin the long homeward journey, 
walking the entire distance, in order to save 
the scant wages. 

Down at the mouth of Rocky Fork, a little 
creek which emptied into the Kentucky, a raft 
was being loosed from its moorings, and was 
moving into the current. A big, broad-should- 
ered son of the mountains stood on the bank, 
with a heavy marking sledge across his 
shoulder. In the end of the sledge was the 
raised iron-rimmed letter A, and this letter was 



112 



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in the end of every log which came down 
Rocky Fork. It was Tom Altman's mark, and 
the big, broad-shouldered man who stood on 
the bank and watched the rafts swing out into 
the stream was Tom Altman. 

"Watch 'em at the locks, Beeson !" he called 
as the head raft turned into the bend of the 
river. He shifted his marking sledge to his 
right shoulder and climbed the mountain path. 
For miles to the right and left the timber lands 
belonged to Altman, and from these woods he 
had sent thousands of feet of the finest logs 
that had ever gone down stream. He was 
known as the wealthiest log-man of the upper 
Kentucky, and it was a matter of continual 
regret to his friends that he did not give up the 
rougher part of the work and enjoy the riches 
which he had earned through years of toil ; but 
he continued to live with the men in his employ, 
and to share with them the hardships and the 
rough fare. He knew every detail of his bus- 
iness, and knew where every dollar of his 
money lay, and the interest bearing of the 
same, although he had never been a day in 
school, picking up what little learning he had 
more by absorption than application. Flis 
fearless character and honesty of purpose gave 
him a leading force in that region where such 
little value was placed on human life. He had 

113 



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followed his own course, taking no part in the 
many bitter quarrels of the mountain factions. 

For years there had been trouble in the 
county ; the oldest citizen could not tell you the 
original cause of the conditions beset with so 
much hatred and bloodshed, which had given 
the county a bad name throughout the State 
and the Nation. 

As Altman approached the two-storied log- 
house where he and his men had their quarters 
he was met by a bronzed-faced log-man 

"Been to town, Craigman?" asked Altman. 

"Yes, jest got back.'' 

"What news?" 

"Fight broke out at Holeman's liv'ry stable. 
Joe Honce and Mat Honce was killed, an' the 
Pritten boys broke in the jail an' tuck Lon Prit- 
ten out, an' Judge Howell has sent for the 
soldiers." 

Altman ate his bacon and eggs in silence. 
His thoughts were up at the county-seat, and 
he was thinking of the two men who had been 
killed and of the families left destitute. The 
next morning he called Craigman and said, 

"Al, I am going to town on business and 
want you to look after things. Get anything 
you need at the store. The logs as I want to 
go down is all marked — send no others and 
mark no others." 

114 



sprigs o' Mint 



Altman saddled his mule and started for 
town. Taking a roundabout course he went by 
the cabins where the Honce boys had lived. Here 
he found sorrow and despair, children clinging 
to frightened-looking mothers, and straining 
their tear-stained eyes toward the mountain 
road, looking for the beloved parents who 
would come no more. Altman spoke kind 
words to all of Ihem and gave the women an 
order on the store for provisions, and told 
them to come to him when they were in need. 
He rode into the little town and hitched his 
mule in front of Judge Howell's office. How- 
ell sat smoking his corn-cob pipe and looking 
as if an avalanche of trouble was about to 
sweep over him, but seeing the giant form of 
Altman at the door, his face brightened and he 
came forward, extending his hand and saying, 

"Lord knows I am glad to see you, Tom. 
Hell's broke loose and both sides air layin' in 
whisky and ammunition. They've took Lon 
Pritten out of the jail and I've sent for the 
troops, and the Governor has wired me that 
they will be here to-morrow." 

Altman twisted off a chew of tobacco and 
said, 

"Will the soldiers do any good?" 

"Well," said Howell, "they will quiet things 
down for a while anyhow; and I'm going to 



115 



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have Lon Pritten back and try him, if they kill 
me." 

"You will not be the first good man who has 
lost his life trying to do his duty," said Alt- 
man. "But here's my hand. I'm with you, for 
it's time somethin' was bein' done to stop this 
state of things." 

The soldiers came the next morning — a com- 
pany of forty-five young fellows, who sang all 
the way from the railway station, and sang as 
they pitched the camp. The captain was a 
sober and serious young man of thirty years. 
He and Altman and Howell talked long and 
earnestly regarding the situation. "Send your 
sheriff first to look for Pritten. Let's move as 
quietly as possible." Judge Howell sent the 
sheriff and two deputies, and the next day Prit- 
ten came in with them, saying that all he 
wanted was the protection of the soldiers and a 
fair trial. 

"Keep Pritten inside his tent, and don't let 
him outside of it," said Altman to the captain. 
"His life will not be worth a feather if you let 
him come out in the light." 

Pritten stood it very well for the first day, 
but after he had gotten on good terms with the 
soldiers he grew restless to get out and 
stretch himself in the warm sunshine. 

"Go back into that tent, Pritten!" ordered 

ii6 



sprigs o' Mint 



the captain. Pritten was standing in the midst 
of the soldiers. He started toward the tent. 
There came a httle white puff of smoke from the 
up-stairs window of a house about a square 
away — the crack of a Winchester, and Pritten 
lunged forward and fell, shot through the 
heart. The soldiers ran for their guns, and 
went on a run for the house down the street. It 
was a vacant house; they climbed the creaky 
stairs ; a Winchester 'rifle lay by the window, 
that was all — back they marched through the 
gathering crowd. 

''Who done it? Who done it?" was the 
question asked on every side; but if there was 
one in that crowd who had any suspicions he 
kept them in his own bosom. The coroner 
opened Pritten' s clothes. The blood had 
clotted on his blue cotton shirt, his mouth was 
drawn into a death grin, showing his crooked 
and decayed teeth. Another grave was made 
in the valley. 

The soldiers remained for ten days, several 
arrests were made, but nothing by way of evi- 
dence was secured. The men whose hands 
were stained with blood were hid away in the 
fastnesses of the mountains. 

Five days after the soldiers left the trouble 
broke out again. Jiles Pritten shot Clem Honce 
as he came out of a barber shop. A deputy 

117 



Sprigs o' Mint 



sheriff was near and arrested Pritten and took 
him to jail. 

"I'll get the soldiers back/' said Judge 
Howell. 

''No," said Altman, who had come into town, 
"we'll take care of the matter ourselves." He 
slung his heavy marking sledge into a corner 
and said, "I'm agoin' to guard that jail !" And 
guard it he did. He sent for a dozen log-men 
and put them around the jail, and there was no 
attempt to move on them. 

Pritten was brought to trial at once, and on 
the jury sat at least eight men selected by Alt- 
man — raftsmen, and men who were not afraid 
to do their duty. The court-room was filled 
with men representing both factions, men 
whose countenances spoke hatred and a thirst 
for blood. The witnesses were terror-stricken, 
but under Altman's piercing eye they told what 
they knew. After the speeches had been made, 
the jury went out, and came back in forty 
minutes with a verdict of murder in the first 
degree, and fixed Pritten' s punishment at 
death. Nothing like that verdict had ever been 
heard in that court-house before. There was 
an ominous clicking in hip-pockets. Altman 
stood out before the crowd like a monarch oak, 
his eyes flaming — 

"I'll kill the man who pulls a gun !" 

ii8 



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The guard started for a spring-wagon with 
the prisoner, who was to be taken to Winches- 
ter for safe-keeping. As Altman and his log- 
men came out into the httle court-house yard, 
they noticed that there was a commotion over 
where the spring-wagon was standing, and 
suddenly a pistol-shot rang out and the crowd 
began to scatter, and from the windows of the 
near-by houses Winchester rifles began to crack. 
A man running along by the fence threw up his 
hands and fell to the pavement, his fingers 
twitched at the trigger of a revolver, and the 
bullet tore into the ground. 

Altman stood beside the prisoner. There 
was a crash of window-glass as a ball tore 
through a window — men ran out the back door. 
''Get into that wagon," said Altman to the 
prisoner, and as Altman put his foot on the 
step to mount to the wagon-seat, a rifle ball 
struck him in the leg. He turned and drew his 
pistol — the gleam of a wild tiger in his eyes. 
A mountaineer whose countenance was hid 
behind a bushy beard was firing at him. ''Come 
out into the open like a man !" cried Altman, as 
he put a bullet into the tree behind which the 
man was sheltering. The beard stuck out 
beyond the tree, and the next moment a ball 
cut through it. But Altman suddenly dropped 



119 



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his pistol, and reeled and fell. Craigman, his 
foreman, ran to his side, revolver in hand, — 

"Air ye hurt, Altman ?" 

"I'm done for, Craigman. I done my best 
to do my duty, — I had nothin' ao'in nobody, I — 
I tried to do my duty — git the rafts down on 
time, I'll not — be — there^ — to — ma-r-k t-h-e — 
l-o-g-s." 



120 



sprigs o' Mint 



WHEN THE KATYDID SINGS. 

When the katydid sings in the sleeping trees, 
On the night's soft turn, 'tis a mild heart-ease, 

And the lisp 

And the whisp 
Of the crisp, balm breeze 
Is wand'ring the valley on fairy wings — 

Oh, the heart grows warm 

'Neath the weird-touched charm, 
When the katydid sings. 

When the katydid sings in that sweet hushed 

spell, 
When the moon and the stars in their giory 
swell. 

When each glint 

And tint 
Of the sky is sent 
Into your heart till its soul-tone rings. 

And you dream once more 

Of the days of yore. 
When the katydid sings. 



121 



Sprigs o' Mint 



PELICAN SMITH. 

It was unnecessary to make any inquiry as to 
how he g"ot that name — all you had to do was 
to look at that nose. Physiognomists tell us 
that a prominent nose is indicative of character 
— the nose on Smith's face didn't dispute the 
statement of the gentlemen of science. Pelican 
Smith was a character, all over. It stuck out 
on him in bunches, although some of the prom- 
inent knobs and sinks in his head had been 
placed there by other hands than those of 
nature. But Pelican had character. Webster's 
third definition of character reads : '^The sum 
of qualities which distinguishes one person or 
thing from another." The "sum of qualities" 
which distinguished Smith was his nose — there 
never was another nose like it. You didn't 
have to look to the eyes for expression; you 
didn't seek the swinging lines of the mouth for 
frowns or smiles; the forehead nor the chin 
opened any by-path of light to his soul, all of 
your observation was centralized upon the one 
predominating feature, his nose. 

Pelican was a character that helped to make 
history in the river country. Some years before 
the nose had gained prominent recognition 

122 



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beyond the confines of the county, PeHcan 
was joined in holy wedlock to Miss Addie 
Stringer, of Ball's Landing. The union was 
a happy one, so far as it went. The happy 
couple started on their honeymoon from Ball's 
Landing on the steamer Little Tiger. They 
were going down to Wide Awake, a distance of 
thirty miles. The boat caught fire, Pelican 
swam out on a cracker-box, and when they 
found the body of his wife the next day. Peli- 
can thumped the side of his nose with his 
thumb, and said, ''Hit's a damn pity she 
couldn't swim." 

Pelican managed to throttle his grief, and 
started boldly into life again by starting a 
''blind tiger." He succeeded in working up 
several good-sized war-dances in the commu- 
nity by his assiduous attention to business, but 
one night a mild argument, as to whether the 
Baptists or the Methodists were the chosen of 
the Lord, was started in his place, and Pelican 
had to close up the joint, for nearly all of his 
best customers closed up their earthly careers 
at the close of the argument. Pelican told me 
afterward that over three hundred shots were 
fired. "And," said he, leaning over, "I reckon 
the only reason I was saved was that I didn't 
belong to either denomination, as you know I 
am a Campbellite." 

123 



Sprigs o' Mint 



Pelican moved down on the Ohio after this 
episode, and it was there I first met him. There 
is always a ripple of interest when a stranger 
moves into a community, especially if there is 
some ting-e of mystery about him. Oh, if we 
only knew a few things, we would never be- 
come commonized by a flabby familiarity with 
all of our affairs. Pelican didn't have much to 
say — he had no desire to mention the past. He 
was wise. It was rumored that he had left a 
good farm at Ball's Landing, and moved down 
on the Ohio for relief from the asthma. Peli- 
can had never been troubled with asthma, or 
any other disease, beyond the whisky habit, but 
he did not dispute any of the statements made 
by an interested community. His stock went 
up with the "farm" statement. He was invited 
to take supper with Bill Bristow. Bill was the 
proud owner of twenty acres of hill land, with 
a small house and good-sized mortgage on it. 
Pelican still retained his noncommittal attitude,, 
and the interest grew stronger. Pelican had 
one pet phrase, which he always used on state 
occasions. If Pelican had any knowledge of 
trigonometry, or could even write his name, I 
never knew of it, but in speaking of distances, 
or the position of any object, he invariably re- 
ferred to it as being "at an angle of forty-five 
degrees." It had the smack of learning about 

124 



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it. Old Bristow's big word throw was "sub- 
soil," but be went in his shell when Pelican 
shoved '^angle of forty-five degrees" through 
his nose. 

Miss Lottie, a demure maiden of twenty-nine 
summers, sat next to Pelican, and old Bristow 
looked on with satisfaction at the headway they 
were making. Old Bristow was thinking of 
the farm up at Ball's Landing, Pelican was 
thinking of the fafm he was on. * >i^ ^ 
There is no use in hanging over details. Peli- 
can and Miss Lottie were married a few weeks 
after the supper. Bristow gave a dance and ice 
cream supper, and charged fifty cents admis- 
sion. There was dancing, singing and a cut- 
ting scrape, and the happy couple felt that the 
occasion had been one of success. The bride 
was disappointed in not getting to take a steam- 
boat trip, but Pelican turned pale at the sugges- 
tion. Pelican certainly married into old Bris- 
tow's family, for he never made any move 
toward looking for another home, and it wasn't 
many days before Bristow's bosom began to 
nurse a supreme contempt for his nose-gay of 
a son-in-law. 

Time passed, and then came the twins — a 
boy and a girl — and Pelican's eyes beamed 
fondly on the boy, for he had the Pelican nose. 
But old Bristow rose up in his wrath and said 

125 



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that *'the straw had broke the camel's back at 
last," and that they would have to go, and so 
Pelican and his wife came down into my neigh- 
borhood to live in a shanty-boat on the river. 
But it was a losing venture, so far as domestic 
felicity was concerned. Pelican and his wife 
awoke in the mornings amid a war of words 
and the yells of the twins, and the sun went 
down on their increasing wrath every evening. 

Bristow came down to lend the voice of 
reconciliation. Pelican knocked him off the 
boat with an oar, and as old Bristow floundered 
out to the shore and wrung the water out of 
his whiskers, he said, "Fix yer own troubles — 
far' well!" Two weeks after the fight Mrs. 
Pelican Smith went back to live with her father^ 
and Pelican resumed the fishing and ''blind- 
tiger" business with a calm and reassuring 
peace of mind. I had two new nets and a set 
of trot-lines, and we bunched into a sort of 
partnership, and Pelican seemed satisfied with 
the world again. 

I could never get him to give vent to his feel- 
ings in regard to his family, or as to whether 
he had any yearning to see them, or to be with 
them again. But one night we sat together on 
the shore. We had run out of bait and were 
making plans to secure it, as the lines were dry 
upon the shore and the fish would be running 

126 



sprigs o' Mint 



with the gentle rise coming in the river. We 
sat on an old sycamore log together. The moon 
had just begun to swing over the hill and i 
could see the white rim of it above the edge of 
Pelican's nose. Across the river a farm dog 
was baying, and away up the bend I could hear 
the sleepy chug-chug of some steamer. The 
moonbeams sprayed through the willows hang- 
ing above the mouth of the creek, and the mur- 
muring ripples on the white-pebbled shore 
seemed to dance in gladness under the spell of 
the beauteous night. 

"Pehcan," I said, "why don't you go back to 
your wife and children, and try to live happily 
with them?" 

Pelican made no answer, and I pressed upon 
him. 'Telican, those two little twins are 
dependent upon you, and if you had a little 
home to yourself, where the vines could run 
over the doorway, and the birds sing in your 
own trees, with your wife and children beside 
you, your life would be happy — think of them, 
Pelican, your wife and children." 

Pelican arose, his face turned toward the 
stream — ah ! I had him at last meditating upon 
his dear ones. 

"What are you thinking of. Pelican ?" 

"I was thinkin' wher'n the hell we'd git that 
bait ter-morrow." 

127 



sprigs o' Mint 



SLIBBERS ON SPIRITUALISM. 

I cannot say exactly, boys, 

But still I am inclined 
To give the thing a summin' up 

Within my jostled mind. 
And maybe that my rulin's are 

As fur- fetched as intense, 
But Slibbers never passes down 

Beyond his good hoss sense; 
But if the Lord Almighty now 

Is slingin' 'round His laws, 
And speakin' out His prophecies 

Thro' all these mediums' jaws, 
And if the run of mediums are 

Like that one who queered me. 
There'll be a row in heaven, for. 

They'd queer eternity. 

There's one thing mighty certain, boys, 

A man ain't fit to think. 
Nor see to no advantage when 

His hide is corked with drink. 
And when they turned the green lights on 

And whispered kinder low, 
I almost felt the lizards as 

I felt them years ago. 

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Sprigs o' Mint 



They first called up a spirit of 

Some jay-bird from Japan, 
Who sent a snake-eyed message tO' 

A girl named Cooney Ann. 
And Cooney Ann just shivered till 

I thought her soul would sink ; 
But I laid low and fortified 

Behind another drink. 

And then they called a spirit up 

Who said he couldn't tell 
Just how the things was slidin', for 

He'd just escaped from hell. 
I b'lieve he was a Congressman 

Or trust king who had paved 
That place with good intentions, but 

He chuckled, "I am saved." 
And then the medium sorter checked 

His message thro' the floor. 
For although mediums call the rich 

The mediums all are poor. 
For seems that all these spirits who 

Can tell your life and sich. 
Can never tell their friends back here 

Just how they kin git rich. 

And then they called a Western man 
By name of Biglow Meggs, 

And Biglow, as I noticed, had 
The same old shape of legs 

129 



Sprigs o' Mint 



As all the other spirits had. 

And when he talked of death, 
It seemed the same old onion smell 

Was ling'rin' on his breath. 
And Biglow called my name and says, 

"Your first wife beckons you." 
And I reached for a chair leg and 

I says, ''The heck she do !" 
And reachin' for my arctic shoes 

I says, "J^st say for me 
I hoped she would stop talkin' when 

She hit eternity." 



And still the lights was burnin' low 

When I fit thro' the door — 
I left a part of Biglow and 

His spirit on the floor. 
As I rode home I figgered how 

I'd made the thing a botch, 
And just then I discovered that 

Some one had stole my watch. 



130 



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Dupont de Nemours has discovered that 
dogs talk in vowels when angry, using but two 
consonants; he asserts that cats employ the 
same vowels as dogs, but their language is more 
affluent in consonants. I don't know anything 
about dog language or cat language, but if 
there is anything in bird language I heard some 
tall "cussing" up here last week. A family of 
birds, of the martin tribe, occupy a box at the 
top of a long pole in the side yard. I had fre- 
quently noticed a black rooster martin as he 
shifted around chattering and chirping in the 
happiest manner. He and old sister martin 
were evidently on the best of terms — the old 
man always returned from marketing beaming 
with pleasantries, and the way he kept his 
spade-tail coat "slicked" up showed that he was 
a gentleman of the old school. But one morn- 
ing I heard a terrible commotion in the box, 
and I knew that a "rough house" was on, and 
after a while I saw old martin leap off the perch, 
and as he went he cackled out something which 
savored of sulphur. The next day I saw 
another martin there — a brown-coated rooster 
— sitting around on the box, making all sorts 
of courtesies to the grass-widow, and when I 

131 



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saw them sitting together on the roof I knew 
the cause of the disturbance; but the next day I 
saw old martin, number one, on a limb near the 
box ; he was muddy, and there was a dangerous 
fire in his eye, and every time he sang out he 
seemed saying, ^'Come out, you sneaking cow- 
ard," and finally old martin went in and 
dragged him out, and he licked that brown- 
coated martin nearly to death, and the last I 
saw of him he was boring a hole in the atmos- 
phere, due southwardo Old black martin is 
now "at home" to his friends, and the family, 
including sister martin, seem proud of him as 
the master of his household. 

^c ^€ ^^ 5jc y^ ^f*. 3^ 2|C 

The afternoon drags along under the swel- 
tering heat — the clouds in the far-away blue 
seem lazily drifting northward in search of 
some refreshing breeze — over there in the little 
boxelder tree a catbird is complaining in a sort 
of minor strain, and the locust lends his mourn- 
ful dirge to the oppressive surroundings . . 

. . . You swing your arm over the back of 
the iron bench and watch the children as they 
come down the walks of the park. Here is a 
group, in charge of a white-aproned nurse, and 
how carefully she watches each move, lest the 
immaculate dress of these children of fortune 

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become soiled by the stains of the grass. Their 
little hearts seem to yearn for the joy of a good 
roll on the sweet grass and some of the pleasure 
of a rough-and-tumble time. 

Look over yonder on the grass beneath the 
heavy trees. There are two little girls in red 
calico, and a red-headed, freckled- faced bully of 
six years, barefooted and stone-bruised, dirty 
and delighted in his freedom. The buttons are 
all missing from the ragged blue waist, the rosy 
pinkness of his chest is laid bare, the muscles of 
his little shoulders draw into a roll of strength 
and he stands before you a tiny Hercules. 
There is no refined modulation in the voices of 
this group, but the echo of unalloyed happiness 
leaps with the freshness of a mountain spring. 

The shadows are lengthening and the sweet- 
faced and prettily-clad children are gone, the 
lunch baskets with their dainty sweetmeats are 
swinging on the delicate little arms. The cat- 
bird has begun to sing again. Here comes the 
bully and the ginger-headed girls. There are 
no lunch baskets, no flowers nestling in their 
hands, but over each ruddy face there sweeps 
a smile golden in the glad realization of a gen- 
uine old time. 

"Yes," said Whiskins, as he whetted his 
knife on his bootleg, "when it come to hatin' 

133 



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a man, old Captain Strom led the procession. 
Old Lig"e Peters beat him in a footrace when 
they was boys and won sixty cents from him, 
and he never forgive him, but got to hatin' him 
worse ev'ry year, and if he saw old Lige 
Peters's name in a paper he would burn that 
paper at once. They met up on the bridge one 
day. Old Lige wouldn't turn back fu'st, nuther 
would the old Captain, and they blocked the 
whole road, till Lige hit the old man a crack 
with a rock that loosened his hide and made 
his boss jump in the creek. I never see a man 
hate anuther as old Captain hated Lige. 

*'01d Captain j'ined the church about four 
days before he died; the preacher come tO' see 
him just before he passed away. 

" 'Brother Strom,' said he, 'do you feel that 
you have salvation, and are goin' to be saved ?' 

" 'Yes, I do,' answered the Captain. 

" 'Are you happy ?' asked the parson. 

" 'Yes, I am happy,' said the old Captain, 
'fer I'm goin' to heaven, where I know I won't 
meet old Lige Peters, fer there can be no plan 
of salvation figgered out that can keep him out 
of hell' " 

"Here's flowers for you ; hot lavender, mints, 
savory, marjoram. The marigold that goes to 

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bed with the sun and with him rises weeping ; 
these are flowers of middle summer." — Win- 
ter's Tale. 

I don't know whether William Shakespeare 
or Sir Francis Bacon wrote the exquisite Scene 
III, Act IV of the Winter's Tale, and I don't 
care, but it is a golden and delicious outburst 
of poetry, breathing almost of the fragrance of 
the summer bloom — and such a delicate touch, 
as each separate season comes forward with its 
rich profusion of flowers, and what a subject 
for this master-mind, which jewel-tints each 
word, and makes us see new beauty and fresh 
hidden sweetness in each passing rose. 

The flowers of middle summer — how sweet 
are those we find around us here. The sun may 
swelter and vegetation wither, but these flowers 
come on to cheer us with their radiant faces. 
I have often come across the white acacia, and 
the royal purple rhododendron, hanging their 
gorgeous colors over some lonely mountain 
side, but wafting upon your heart the glorious 
reflection which they caught from limpid skies. 
Along the roadside, and in the fields of this 
dreamy valley, the vermilion red of the Vir- 
ginia creeper and the moon-tinted blossoms of 
the wild honeysuckle, casting around a paradise 
of delicate fragrance; the sweet-briar, rose is 
lingering on the hills— the black-eyed Susans 



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are dotting the swampy wastes — the alder- 
bloom, in all of its dainty clusters, hanging- like 
the outline in the pattern of some rare old 
lace — the wild parsley bending over some 
sequestered pathway, where the flocks come 
tinkling down at eventide. Over yonder is the 
Sweet William, which used to grow by the 
old-fashioned garden walks of our dear old- 
fashioned grandmothers, and the hollyhocks 
of rich magenta red and fairy white, where 
the bee comes on the dew-kissed breeze and 
dips to luscious nectar. The Marechal Niel, 
"sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes," trembles 
in the twilight glory, beside her lovely white- 
robed sister, the tea rose. The tiger-lily is 
bending to the sun and waving in golden glad- 
ness and lending to the summer day the full 
measure of its grace and beauty. 

Long may they cluster — the summer blooms. 
How sweet in the garden of the heart are the 
faded leaves pressed o'er some line in some 
beloved book, telling of love and youthful days, 
and how dear are the memories of the sacred 
beauty of the flowers we laid in wreaths upon 
the tombs of those whose eyes speak love to 
us no more. 



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Who would sing a song of sadness 
'Mid the balmy summer's gladness, 
When the bloom is on the upland 
And the blue is o'er the skies ; 
When the brook is sweetly wending 
Thro' the meadows — rythmic blending 
Of the spirit— touch and whispers 
From the mystic paradise ! 

What a blessing the typewriter has been to 
those of us who are troubled with ^Vriter's 
cramp" or jim-jams of the fingers when we get 
hold of a pen. When a fellow comes to the 
distressing point where he cannot read his own 
chirography when it gets '^cold," a typewriter 
is not only a blessing to him, but a consolation 
to his friends ; and in what bold relief the words 
and sentences stand forth, although a type- 
written love letter is shorn of much of its senti- 
ment without the cute little nothings around the 
margin and between the lines, and a typewritten 
love letter is a boomerang in court, and another 
drawback is that it forces us to try to spell 
correctly. ^ ^ ^ Old Major Sam Banks, 
of central Kentucky, once told me of his 
experience with a typewriter. Said he: "I 
got one of the things and was pounding away, 
trying to learn on it, and after I got so that I 

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could write a little, I made the horrible dis- 
covery that about half the words were spelled 
wrong. I got discouraged, and one morning 
I said to my old colored servant : 'Mose, take 
this thing to the lumber room; I can cut and 
cover with the pen/ " 

sSs ^f ^f ^^ ^£ ^c ^f ^tc 

Speaking of spelling, I am reminded of two 
old magistrates down in western Kentucky. 
There was a warm spirit of rivalry between 
them as to which one possessed the greater 
information and general education. Squire 
B — did not lose any opportunity to criticise 
Squire J — , and Squire J — was ready to jump 
Squire B — on any question. 

"When it comes to Squire B — ," said Squire 
J — to me one morning, "wy, he ain't got no 
more eddication than a gorriller. Would you 
believe it, that old igneramus spells coffee 
k-O'-f-f-e-e, when anybody who knows anything 
at all, knows that it is spelled k-a-u-p-h-y.'' 



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THE DISORGANIZATION OF RAD'S 
RUN CHURCH. 

We were winding slowly through the rocky 
little road between the hills, and as we came 
out upon a little creek, known as Rad's Run, 
I pointed over to an old church building on 
the hillside, and said:' 

''Jed, I am told that ten years ago that old 
building going to ruin up there was the scene 
of some of the greatest revivals in this part of 
the country. Can you tell me why they never 
meet there any more?" 

Jed gazed long and earnestly at the old 
church building, and, as he touched his horse 
with the whip, he answered : 

'That church was thought at one time to be 
closer to heaven than any spot on this earth, 
and they had every sample of religion preached 
thar, from Seven Day Advents to Feet-washin' 
Baptists — it was a kind o' unity church, and 
anybody could preach thar who had the wind, 
and it wa'n't hard to git up the enthoosiasm, 
for religion was a sort of habit round here then. 
I've seen 'em sprinkled, baptized, tuck in on 
probation, kicked out and tuck in with some 
other denomination inside of sixty days in that 
same old church. I was down thar one Sun- 

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day when they was hangin' up mottoes on the 
walls of the church — they was donated by old 
Bige Rollins, who had struck it in the lottery, 
and wanted to git his name before the Lord in 
some shape. The mottoes all had somethin' 
about ^trust' on them — 'Faith and Trust,' 
'Trust in the Lord,' 'The Lord Our Only 
Trust.' 

'T will git back to my subject directly, but 
right here I want to say that every time I see 
that word 'trust' it makes me sort o' sick, since 
we had that turn-about in the sorghum trust 
up here winter before last. 

"Me and Hank Cropper, Sol Croxton and 
all the sorghum molasses makers decided to 
form a trust and put up the price on sorghum 
molasses twenty-five cents on the gallon. They 
got about twenty-three barrels made, and Sol 
Croxton was made president of the syndicate. 
He took the molasses to the city, got drunk, 
and sold it out for most anything he could git, 
and when he got back and we tackled him, he 
says : 'Boys, some Republikin buyers got holt 
of me down thar — I don't know what come of 
the old sweet sorghum, but I know I had a old 
sweet time.' One of the boys went back to his 
mill, and wrote him a sign and put it up, 'My 
only trust is in God, and thar ain't no sorghum 
in heaven.' 

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"But speakin' of the church, as I said, there 
wa'n't no objection to anybody preaching thar, 
and everybody was welcome to shoot off his 
mouth, until Bill Warner brings up a long, 
yaller-whiskered preacher of the Mormon 
faith — he had been preachin' around on the 
street corners in town, and Bill said he could 
snort louder and make more fuss than a hyenar, 
and Bill was right about the fuss part of it. 
He boarded with Bill and kinder hipnertized 
Bill and his wife, fer Bill begin to let his 
whiskers grow, and lowed that Hiddles could 
preach at Rad's Run as long as he lived. It 
was the fust time that there had ever been any 
kick — it was hinted that Hiddles had five wives 
in Utah, and was willin' to take five more. 
Hiddles was game on the woman question, and 
while he never admitted that he had five wives, 
yet he said that the Lord didn't think it was a 
sin for Solomon to have several hundred. He 
got to preachin' the same old sermon over and 
over, and there was no doubt that he was drunk 
some of the time, and at these times he said 
things that would make a cat tuck his tail. 
The things got wuss and the denominations 
said that Mormonism had to go, but Bill 
Warner said it was Mormonism or nothin', and 
the more they talked, the more licker Mormon 
Hiddles put in his hide. 



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''The denominations hung a sign on the door 
one Saturday night which said : 'No more 
Mormon preachin' here/ but the next day the 
Warners had old Hiddles in the box. He 
looked skeered, and the terbacker juice had run 
down his yaller whiskers till it looked like a 
washout in a wheat-field. Everything was 
quiet and the wimmen set close to the winders. 
Hiddles got up and opened the Bible and says : 
'I take my tex' from Romans, vii, 24/ 'No 
you don't/ says Jonathan Wilson. You could 
heard a pin drap. Somebody must a stepped 
on a match, for the shootin' commenced and 
the wimmen and children begin to yell. Jona- 
than Wilson was barkin' with an old powder 
and ball, and every time she yelped about forty 
pounds of plasterin' fell off. Nobody was 
killed, though they say the whole book of Luke 
was shot out of the Bible. 

"Hiddles got out in some way and lit onto 
Sam Rogers's old gray mare, and didn't turn 
her loose until after he had swum the river. 

"I don't know, but religion sorter played out 
after that, and the old shetters of the church 
begin to rot off and the boys made chicken soup 
on the stove. 

"There was one old mottO' hangin' above the 

pulpit: 'Heaven is our home,' and somebody 

had wrote under the words : 'But hell is for 

the Mormons.' " 

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sprigs o' Mint 



THE TALE OF FALLING RIVER. 

It was at the Soldiers' Home at Pewee 
Valley. On the lawn sat a group of old 
soldiers recounting experiences of the war. 
One old fellow from Nelson County took a 
good, generous chew of "home-spun," and 
said: 

"I had one incident in that war that turned 
out in a manner that would doubtless be a 
surprise to you, at least it was to me. It 
happened at Falling River in Maryland. Our 
command of cavalry was hotly engaged with 
a section of Kilpatrick's Michigan cavalry. I 
was detailed with the hospital corps and was 
acting as litter-bearer and, of course, didn't 
bear any arms. In some way I got mixed up 
in a scrimmage which they were having down 
in a cherry orchard, and the first thing I 
knowed I was dodging right and left to save 
my hide from the rush of horses and saber 
slashes. 

"A young officer of the Michigan cavalry 
wheeled his horse around on me, and before I 
could figger what he was about he gave me a 
saber cut across my arm, the scar which you 

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can see now. I made a grab for his bridle- 
rein, and every time he tried to cut me over 
the head I would throw the horse's head ir^ 
front of me. We were havin' it at this gait 
hot and heavy, he trying his best to split my 
head open, when another litter-bearer who had 
gone out with me, picked up a light rail and 
struck him across the back with it. The rail 
broke, but the officer turned in his saddle, and 
with the swiftness of lightning he almost cut 
the head off of that Alabama soldier v\^ho struck 
him. He then turned his attention to me again. 
His eyes were blazing fire. I caught the gleam 
in them for an instant, but I kept swinging 
that horse's head. He leaned way over in his 
saddle, and gritting his teeth said : 'I will kill 
you if I have to kill this horse.' Just at this 
point a little fellow from Arkansas laid an 
old-fashioned rifle across the fence and shot 
him through the breast. He reeled in his 
saddle, his saber dropped from his hand. I 
was at his side, and as he fell from his horse 
into my arms he said : Tlease send the pack- 
age home I have in my inside pocket.' The 
Michigan cavalry had fallen back. I laid him 
on the ground and he died without a groan. 
He was one of the handsomest men I ever saw, 
and one of the d — dest bravest fighters I saw 
in either army. I was bar' footed and I pro- 



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ceeded to git into his fine cavalry boots, an' 
they fit Hke they were made for me. I took 
his carbine and turned his pistols over to some 
of the other boys, and then I went into his 
inside pocket for the package he asked me to 
send home for him. There it was, tied up 
carefully, like some woman had tied it. I 
didn't have time to open it, and didn't particu- 
larly care to. The Yankees were coming back, 
we were away from our command, and you 
ought to have seen me cover ground in them 
fine boots; but I had the little package in my 
pocket, and I made up my mind to send it to 
the address that was on it, but jest at that time 
I wasn't worrying a bit over his death, for if 
he hadn't have been killed at the time he was 
I don't think that I would have ever got to 
enjoy them boots. 

''When the war was over, in a short time 
after that, I returned to Tennessee, whar I 
lived at the time. I went to work like you 
other fellows, but about the fust thing my wife 
and me done was to send that package to the 
address in Detroit, Michigan. I didn't care to 
send much of a letter along, but I simply said 
that he died the death of a brave soldier, and 
that the last word on his lips was 'mother.' 
You know that there wasn't much sentiment 



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just after the war in reg-ard to a fellow that 
had tried to split your head, but I had done my 
duty in sending back that package. I went to 
work in the best spirit I had. I followed an 
old gray mule behind the plow all the summer, 
and I wore them same boots — they was the 
best boots I ever saw. I went throusfh the 
winter with them and fox-hunted with them, 
but ever}' once in awhile when I would look 
down at them, I would see that handsome 
young officer's face, with the pallor of death 
on it, and hear his last breath gasp 'mother.' 

"We worked along there in Tennessee for 
five or six years. I made several good strikes 
on cotton and other crops, and we finally sold 
out and come to Nelson County. I made good 
money out of tobacco and stock, and after I 
had got to feeling kinder easy, one day I said 
to my wife : 'Betty, we haven't been anywhere 
since the war but to Nashville once. Let's 
shake ourselves and go to see Niagara Falls.' 
Well, we got ready and went and stayed there 
till we saw them Falls to our hearts' content, 
and the day before we left, Betty comes up to 
me in a sort of timid way, but with a soft look 
in her eye, like the one she always had when 
our first boy died, and she says : 'Let's hunt 
up the address of the woman we sent that pack- 
age to in Detroit.' I knowed we had to do it, 

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but before I thought, I looked down at my feet, 
thinking I had them boots on. Betty had the 
address. We went to Detroit, and found the 
house, but the people who lived there said the 
woman of the name had moved up on some 
other street, she didn't know where, but she said 
that the druggist over on the corner could 
probably tell us where she had gone. We went 
to the druggist and showed him the name. He 
studied for a while and said: 'Oh, yes; she 
lives on sech an' sech a avenue.' He wrote it 
down, and we got up there about 8 o'clock in 
the night. 

"Betty rung the bell. A servant girl came 
to the door and we told her that we wanted to 
see the mistress of the house. The servant 
told us to have a seat in the hall, and purty soon 
a little old dried-up lookin' sort of woman come 
trippin' down. Her face was kinder peaked, 
and the expression on her face was like that 
when you get an unexpected telegram. I didn't 
wait for her to begin, but I rose up and said: 
'Madam, I am the man who sent you the pack- 
age from your son, who was killed at Falling 
River.' I knowed she was his mother, for I 
remembered his face too well, and the old lady 
kinder sunk down on the step of the stairway 
and begin to weep kinder soft, and Betty went 
over to her and they both set there holdin' 



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hands and softly weepin', and every once in 
a while I would jerk my feet under me and look 
down, almost feelin' them boots on my feet 
again. 

"Presently the old lady got up and dried her 
eyes, and she called the servant and told her to 
serve us some tea, and she asked us to wait 
until she sent out and got some of the relatives 
to come in. I thought that maybe she was 
goin' to start that fight over again to sorter 
even up matters for the death of her son, but 
when they all come in I saw that she had sent 
for them to hear from the lips of the man who 
had seen her son die, the story of his sacred 
death to her. I felt like giving Betty a good 
cussing for getting me there, but I liked the 
gentle manner of the little old woman more and 
more. She took us up into the library and there 
upon the wall hung his picture — the same hand- 
some face and the fircylit eye which I saw close 
in death at Falling River, and they asked me 
to tell the story; but all I could say was that 
he died the brave death of a soldier and that 
his last word was 'mother.' 

"Then the old lady untied the package, and 
there was her picture, an old daguerreotype, 
and him a little fellow settin' on her knee and 
a lock of her hair and his'n all interwoven 
together, and a little Testament with his name 



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on it. The old lady cried, and Betty and the 
others cried. I had lost my handkerchief, but 
I kinder gathered up the table cover and wiped 
off a little water that was tricklin' down my 
cheek. After we all had shaken hands good- 
by and we had got onto the street, my feet 
ached like they had been mashed in a hay press, 
but I looked down at them as we trudged along 
and said : 

" 'Thank God them boots is wore out.' " 



149 



sprigs o' Mint 



"AN EYE FOR AN EYE/' ETC. 

In the tune and the rhyme of the summer time, 
When the breeze comes soft from the South- 
ern streams, 
Where the pigeons fly in the balmy sky 

And the hills lay wrapped in their wistful 
dreams ; 

Where the blue- jay chants 'mid the leafy 
haunts. 

Where the peacock's cry is weird and shrill ; 
And the scattering bloom, and the rich perfume 

Of the jasmine vine 'neath the window sill. 

'Mid the gold and green of this Southern scene 
The cooing tones of a child are heard. 

And the laughter sweet 'round the toddling 
feet, 
And a mother's voice with her loving word. 

And amid this charm, where the heart grows 
warm. 

Care flies away as with speedy wings ; 
And the sun-kissed breeze in the leafy trees 

A lullaby opes with its whisperings. 



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In this home of love — God in heav'n above, 
Why should this scene in its beauty close, 

And this paradise 'neath the sunny skies 
Be fraught with clouds of bitterest woes? 

Joy's blessing departs when the black fiend 
starts 
To rob the home of its love and peace — 
The strange, startled scream, and the knife's 
quick gleam. 
The life-blood ebbs, and the wild cries cease. 

And the child that sleeps as the demon creeps, 
Awakes with a cry of sudden fear; 

And the knife descends, and the warm blood 
blends 
With that of the mother, flowing near. 

Then sweet, oh sweet, are the sounds that greet 
The ear — 'tis the bloodhound, baying long, 

For the trail is warm, and the wild alarm 
Has gathered a host, both swift and strong. 

The swamp is deep, and the wild vines creep 
O'er the stagnant pool and the slimy ground ; 

But the bloodhound knows where the demon 
goes. 
And he leaps with a frantic, fiercer bound. 



Sprigs o' Mint 



And the hempen bands, drawn by wilHng hands, 
The wild, flaming eyes, and the struggHng 
breath ; 
For Vengeance has cried, and the cry sweeps 
wide, 
And Vengeance this hour seeks naught but 
death ! 

*1* *A* %1^ <kl^ >l^ J^ vl* xl^ 

>JS ^f^ ']> ^f^ *(* ^f* 'I* 't* 

The magnohas bloom o'er the mother's tomb, 
Where mother and child have slept so long ; 

But the bloodhound's chain will be loosed again 
When Vengeance cries for a nameless wrong. 



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OLE UNCLE ABE. 

Ole Uncle Abe is bline, you know, 
Eyes went out long years ago 
Down in the mine at Carson's mill — 
Hain't seen since, an' never will. 
But ole Uncle Abe he never fret. 
An' laugh an' say, ''De day come yet 
When somebody come an' tech my eye. 
An' de light will come yet, bye an' bye." 

Ole Uncle Abe he wander down 
Thro' de big beech woods and ketch de soun' 
Uv de creek what runs to de ribber side. 
An' he fine de spot whar de red-birds hide. 
An' he set 'n de bank an' he hear de song, 
An' he hear de creek as she swing along. 
An' he take off his hat an' he rub his eye. 
An' he say, "I will see you bye an' bye." 

An' he drum his han' on de ole beech log, 
An' he whistle a tune to his yaller dog. 
An' de little ole dog wid de stumpy tail 
He howl an' whine, and he sorter wail. 
An' he lick de han' dat has been so kine, 
Kase he know Uncle Abe is ole an' bline. 
An' ole Uncle Abe he say, "Le's go 
Down to de fiel' whar de green grass grow. 



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An' I'll run my han' in de juicy blade 
As we set down thar in de spreadin' shade, 
An' we'll ketch de breeze frum de sof blue sky, 
An' I'm gwine ter see it, bye an' bye." 

Ole Uncle Abe, de spring has gone. 
An' summer time has done come on, 
An' de summer's past, an' den de fall. 
Still ole Uncle Abe can't see at all. 
An' de winter time when dey laid him low 
In his narrer grave so white wid snow, 
An' I know Uncle Abe has opened his eyes 
Somewhar up thar 'roun' Perrydise. 



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THE DOWNFALL OF REV. DUCKEY. 
For years and years the little town of G- 



had been enjoying a peaceful and happy exist- 
ence, the white portion of the population serene 
in their frugal method of living — frugal in 
the sense of frowning down any unnecessary 
extravagance, but knowing all the comforts^ of 
good housekeeping according to the proportion 
of their incomes, with good and well-trained 
servants from the colored population, and this 
element had been contented and faithful in their 
duties, at least until the appearance of Rev. 
"Duckey in the town. The aforesaid proclaimer 
of the Word hailed from an Ohio town, and 
heralded himself as a man of high attainments 
and as a special emancipator of his race from 
the many burdens said to be piling upon them. 
Duckey was short and heavy-set, yellow- 
skinned, and with a smirk on his face which 
told of his self-consuming opinion of impor- 
tance, and his first work along the line of 
elevating his race was by way of imparting the 
startling information that, as descendants of 
Egyptian and African kings, they should take 
their positions on an equal footing, if not above 



IS5 



Sprigs o' Mint 



the white brethren, and in the Httle colored 
school the word went out that colored children 
were not to give up any portion of the sidewalks 
to white children, but to hold their rights in 
everything, and, as a consequence, several 
"coon" pupils appeared in school with "skinned" 
heads, the results of Duckey's idea of "rights." 

Servants were becoming scarce — ^they didn't 
like to do the work of the kitchen under the 
spell of Duckey's new dispensation. A number 
of negro men were idling away their time, and 
the white folks began to put things under a 
stronger lock and key. Duckey was glowing 
under the change which he found he was bring- 
ing about, but, from some cause, his salary was 
not coming in with the promptness he desired, 
and, unknown to this mulatto of greater parts, 
there was gathering a storm which was to blow 
him and his theories into unexpected oblivion. 

Old Uncle Jasper Harper had filled the pulpit 
in the colored Baptist church for years before 
the arrival of Duckey, and he had laid before 
his people the plain truths as he knew them, 
and, above everything, he had endeavored to 
show them that without the friendship of the 
whites they would be as helpless as babes in 
their endeavors. But Uncle Jasper had been 
sidetracked by Duckey, for Uncle Jasper was 
black and very old-fashioned in his sing-song 



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way. Uncle Jasper didn't indorse the teach- 
ings of Duckey, and he hastened to let both 
white and black know it, and he had advised 
with his white friends as to the best course to 
pursue, and they cannot tell you to this day just 
how it was done, but Duckey was taken from 
his boarding-house by a party of men who were 
not even masked, and they 'Wode Duckey on a 
rair to the creek, and they put him under strong 
and deep, and after each immersion a voice 
which sounded strangely like Uncle Jasper's 
would say: "Once more, he ain't clean yit." 
The Rev. Duckey eloquently pleaded for his 
life, and was given ten minutes to disappear, 
and after he had gone Uncle Jasper made a 
sweeping bow to the ''committee" and said: 
"God moves in a mysterious way His wonders 
to perfo'm." 

The following Sunday found Uncle Jasper in 
the pulpit, and his people welcomed his honest 
and earnest face. Among other things he said : 
"When you is gittin' er long well, keep er 
gittin' er long well, an' doan' let people preach 
to you 'bout no race problerm. When you is 
tryin' to do de bes' yo kin, hit hain't no prob- 
lerm for a white man to help a 'spectable nigger, 
when dat nigger shows dat he wan' to do the 
right thing ; an' hit tain't no problerm for a 
nigger when he gits in a tight place an' Is 



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bleeged to have sho' nuff help — he goes to a 
white man, an' mos' ginnerly a white Demmer- 
crat, too. 

"Doan' talk to me 'bout de upliftin' uv de 
race. All de niggers, fum Bookah Washing- 
ton down to dat nasty little Duckey, carn't uplif 
you if you doan' git a good foothol' an' push 
yo' lazy hide up, an' yo's 9:ot to work, an' yo's 
got to do de bes' work yo kin git ; an' 'member 
what I tell yo, keep de good will uv de white 
man of dis hyar South, fo' he is our frien' ; he 
knows de good ones uv us, an' yo bet he knows 
de no 'count ones, an' a no 'count white man 
hain't gwine ter have de 'spec' uv anybody." 

Uncle Jasper turned to leave the pulpit. 
"Jes' a word afore I close. Deacon Franklin 
has a posterl kyad from dat Duckey, sayin' if 
he doan' git his salary dat he g'wine ter sue de 
chutch. What air de will of de chutch?" 

''I move," says Brother Franklin, ''dat de 
res' uv Duckey's salary be voted to Brother 
Jasper." 

"Amen !" said Brother Jasper. 



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Sprigs o' Mint 



SOME SUPERSTITIONS. 

The editor of the county paper has had the 
peach tree and cherry Hmb and water witch 
business worked on him. The first time I saw 
this test made was in Alabama — they call the 
switches "wilier wan's" down there. I certainly 
saw the switches — I used to long for water 
many a time when I saw the switches turn at 
school — good, cool water to sit down in. But, 
seriously, these w^ater witches carry a very 
mysterious air about them — they slip along as 
if guided by a magic power, and they find water, 
and I notice that other folks always find water, 
too, even though they haven't the witch power; 
but I do not care to take a jot away from this 
time-honored institution, for I am superstitious 
myself. 

I believe that a hair in the butter shows 
conclusively that something has queered the 
churning. 

To find a beer chip in the pocket next morn- 
ing is a bad sign. 

To go to bed with one's boots on is a bad 
omen — he is sure to awaken with great trouble 
— ahead. 

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Sprigs o* Mint 



Eating with a knife is another bad sign ; there 
have been instances where men and women 
have cut their throats in this way. 

To find a pin with a point to you, if it is in 
your clothes, augurs of evil. 

To heai a dog howl when you are trying to 
sleep is a bad sign — for the dog. 

I always shudder when I see a rabbit crossing 
the road, but I thank the Lord that it wasn't a 
pole-cat. 

I never get along this line of superstition, but 
I am reminded of a case in Tennessee. The 
cook where I boarded was going to get married. 
The next morning she was at her old place look- 
ing rather crestfallen, and I said : ^'Milly, did 
you get married last night?" "No, sah," she 
replied. "What was the trouble?" I asked. 
"Dar whuz thirteen people dar." "Well, why 
didn't you send out and get the fourteenth 
man?" "Pap did go out an' try to 'swade him 
ter come in, but he wudden' cum." "Who was 
he, Milly?" "He war de man I 'spected ter 
marry." 



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sprigs o' Mint 



I have buried a friend to-day, 

And the restless world would smile to know 
That a friend can come and a friend can go 

Whose tongue ne'er spoke to call my name. 
But still a friend, with every claim 

Upon my heart, — its tenderest care. 
The pleasures which we both did share 

In other days, when autumn skies 
Were kissed with blue from Paradise, 

When thro' the field and valley wide 
We caught God's breath from every side, 

And in the sapphire's tinted glow 
Of changing woodlands we could know 

That sweet contentment of their shades — 
The rustling leaves, the sombre glades, — 

And there alone we caught the cry 
Of forest birds and saw them fly 

Through that ambrosial sea of air. 
Each joyous wing that fluttered there 

And faded in the far away. 
Brought to the heart a restless thrill — 

All over valley, over hill 
That melancholy sweetness spread 

And iii our souls its peace was shed. 

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sprigs o' Mint 



I have buried a friend to-day, 

No' marble shaft will mark his mound, 
But in the damp and murky ground 

He'll sleep remembered by a friend 
Who loved him till the journey's end. 

No more we'll hear the partridge wing 
From out the stubble, watch them swing 

Upon the course, no more we'll hear 
The happy voices gath'ring near 

When day is done, when the hunt is o'er. 
The back-log's light upon the floor. 

When pipes and stories shift along. 
And voices in some old sweet song — 

Oh, happy days, to come no more. 
For you, old Ned, the hunt is o'er. 



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